The Battle of Brimstone Hill
by Arquenniel
Summary: “We've each left our mark...on the other.” Captain Sparrow has just been cruelly branded by Cutler Beckett. He must make a daring escape. But Fate loves playing tricks on our beloved swashbuckler and she is about to do her very worst...
1. Ow It Hurts

**This story was voted Best Humor at the potc votes livejournal awards! Thank you to whoever voted!**

**(puts on Tour Guide Barbie face)** Hi! This tale takes place in the Caribbean, on the island of St. Kitts. St. Kitts is home to the Brimstone Hill Fortress. Called the _Gibraltar of the West Indies, _Brimstone Hill was a major naval outpost for the English in the 18th century and is one of the best preserved forts in the Americas. Covering over 38 acres, its massive Fort George citadel is protected by seven-foot thick walls of black volcanic stone, which was known as brimstone in the 18th century.

Now if you'll just file neatly into this time machine and strap yourselves in, we'll be off to the 18th century for a good dose of pirate therapy! I hope no one's allergic to wheat berries, because that's all the snacks we have. And warmish water. Thank you!

A/N: This is pre-CotBP, during the _Wicked Wench_ days. Beckett has not been made a lord yet. He is only an agent of the EITC... this does NOT make him more humble or considerate. This story is rated for language (though I'll do my best to keep it tame) and is not slash. This story does, I think, have a touch of romance in its future.

Disclaimer: Pirates of the Caribbean belongs to Disney and therefore to Mickey Mouse.

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**Chapter 1**

The brand hurt like an opera diva singing flat.

Of course, being physically marked was not new to Jack Sparrow; his poor body bore multiple scars from many...acquaintances. But there was no shame in a nobly-gained mark. Jack was all too happy to follow the masculine tradition of prizing combat scars and really felt quite complacent with his appearance.

More importantly, every woman who had-ahem-_seen_ him echoed his contentment. If women liked it, he'd be a fool to hate it.

But this was different.

After being forced to watch the only ship he ever fallen in love with drown with her sides blown out, he'd been taken ashore and dragged into an elegant office. After he saw the iron heating in the fireplace, it took five guards to restrain him. Eventually they just forced him to the floor. Two more guards had pulled his right arm into cold vulnerability. Pinned.

Then Beckett, that rabid agent of the East India Trading Company, the monster responsible for everything that was bad in the world, had sauntered up with the scent of hot metal hanging around him. He'd looked down at Jack…smirked…and then pressed cherry-red iron to-

Jack shuddered. His wrist was swollen, blistered, and oozing clear stuff. He wanted to cover it somehow, but the very thought of touching the brand made him nauseous. The name of his prison was Brimstone and it just figured that he'd hurt as if he'd dipped his hand into the stuff.

But this was the heart of the matter: he'd never felt so cowed by sophistication. Alas and alack, there was a time when dreadlocks just didn't hold up to snowy wigs. That was the deepest wound of all–he'd worked long and hard on his dreadlocks. The women had liked them, too.

Fingering his hair, he sighed. Then he admired the melancholy sound. Then he curled his lip at his wrist. He never wanted to see Beckett again. He had decided he was mortally allergic to the pert-nosed, ice-hearted, girl-skinned wretch.

He'd understood the East India Trading Company's method concerning pirates to be Brand the Buggers Right Before Hanging Them. But for Captain Jack Sparrow, Beckett seemed magnanimously willing to drop the efficiency clause. Why? Because to hang Jack immediately after branding meant that he would suffer for a mere four minutes...and seven seconds.

(The four minutes were for manhandle-the-prisoner-onto-the-gallows, noose-putting-on and lever-pulling. The seven seconds were for the hangman to wipe his nose at least three times. Hangmen always had drippy shnozzes and when things got stringy as they often did, well...)

No, Beckett wanted Jack to suffer for at _least_ five hours. Maybe longer, since Jack _had_ been suffering for five hours in his cell and there was no sign of the inevitable priest ready to hear his confession. Poor priest wouldn't have lasted through the whole thing anyhow. The last priest Jack had confessed to had simply walked out after Jack's nunnery story, which was one of the best.

The odd thing was, Jack was at peace. Utterly serenely calm. Placidity reigned.

Mostly because he was out of his cell and walking away.

The author would tell you how he got out but we'd be standing here by the locked cell door for five minutes and then we'd lose him. And we'd be stuck in this labyrinth of British concoction and never see the light of day again. Let us instead hasten in his sauntering wake.

Still holding his wrist, Jack slithered past torches and dripping walls and aged wood doors with tiny windows in them. No more than a wraith, he became...very hard to follow. Concentrate or we'll get lost.

Then his eyes went huge and he plastered himself to the wall.

_That door_. That cell door with the scratches that formed a bowl of fruit, if he looked at it with his head tilted approximately thirty-two degrees. He'd passed it enough times to know that the little window oozed evil like mucous between its rusted bars. Ew. Jack's cheek twitched as he remembered the hangmen and their extravagant nasal leakages.

He looked down the hall. An intersection was mere yards away. He had to work up his nerve, tally-ho, sally forth, pip pip, just do it. _Just do it_. It was written on the wall across from him, underneath an odd swoop drawn in charcoal! He blinked quickly and it disappeared.

"We're bein' followed by ghosts wit' charcoal," he whispered to the air in front of his nose.

Slowly, inch by inch, Jack slid down the wall into a crouch. Fingers to the floor, he rotated so he faced the intersection. Liquid brown eyes narrowed and focused. Like a cat, he wriggled a little.

When he launched himself with supreme grace, muscles exploding in heavenly unison, his boot slipped. He cursed, slammed flat to the floor, remained so placed for approximately 0.002 seconds, then scrabbled forward like a demented aardvark.

Stop laughing, he'll hear us. And it isn't funny. You'll see why.

Before Jack's tongue (which he was sticking out in his effort) was past that evil door, two chubby hands wrapped around the bars. A high giggle issued from between the hands like a foul vapor. "Jacky!" cried a breathy, high voice, "I done my hair like yours! Jacky, come back and see. Dear Jacky..." Hair was pushed between the bars. Gray with grime, it was plastered into a single dreadlock.

By this time Jack had his feet under him and was moving at Mach 3. He zipped around the corner and up a flight of stairs...

"_Jackieeeeeeee!_"from behind.

Oh. At the top of the stairs was a circular landing with a table in the middle, a table with a quartet of guards sitting around it. Jack careened straight onto the guards' table, somersaulted, and landed on the other side. On his feet.

The guards Johnny, Lawrence, Rob, and Gilbert gaped at him. Fat Gilbert's pipe fell into his lap.

Jack glanced at the scattered cards, then simpered. "Good game. Good odds. Good _bye_."

He lunged drunkenly for the next flight of stairs. At that instant, the pipe burned through Gilbert's breeches and he leaped up with a yowl, beating at his legs. His mates clattered after Jack. Rob got elbowed in the eye because the stairs were only three feet wide and there was a distinct absence of the gentlemanly _Please-After-You_.

This next flight of stairs opened into a long corridor just like the one Jack had left. As he sprinted down it, Lawrence and Johnny reached the top of the stairs and knelt, bringing muskets to bear. "Escaped prisoner! Stop him!" they bellowed. Cell doors rattled as the occupants tried to see out.

Three new guards, Kilroy, Watson, and Tom, ran into Jack's path from the left. He squawked, wiggled his fingers at them, and they yelled in surprise and jumped away. Jack whisked himself around the corner. With a crack like thunder, Lawrence and Johnny fired. Kilroy, Watson, and Tom were thrown into the wall. Their cries of pain followed Jack down three steps, across a guard room, and up three more steps.

A new corridor stretched out before him. He would never find his way out.

Then white daylight flashed in his right eyeball and he threw himself at it. Down a short corridor with a windowed door, grab the ring, pull – the door opened! Jack threw himself out and shut it behind him.

"Dratted luminosity!" he muttered, squinting.

A rectangular yard, ten feet by thirty, presented itself. This was where lucky prisoners got the occasional breath of fresh air. There were muddy puddles in the corners and the stone walls were blue-gray. Cold. Not a spot of green. Above there was blue sky with a miniature cloud set on fire by the sunset. Most importantly, there was another door across the way. Jack scuttled to it, pulled it open, and slipped into gross darkness. His eyes thanked him. And guess what they saw.

A tiny hall leading into...another long corridor. Jack wearily started down it, then froze.

_That voice._ Beckett.

"You said Jenkins've cracked by now." The tone was icily moderated, each syllable neither skipped nor pronounced too carefully.

"Sir, he kept faintin'. We must've revived him five times."

"We don't have time to wave smelling salts under convicts' noses like ladies in a salon. Either find a method that works or dispose of him. I need results by tomorrow night."

"Yes, sir."

Faintly, there came the ringing of a bell. _Drat_.

"An escaped prisoner." Beckett's voice was Sahara-dry. "This place becomes more spectacular by the minute." His precise, clicking footsteps approached. Then stopped. "I suggest you refuse to let Jenkins sleep."

"It will be done, sir."

"Mercer here will see to that. Mercer, bring me whatever results you get tomorrow night."

"Yes, sir."

The footsteps resumed. Jack shrank, his eyes black. He cradled his wrist protectively.

Beckett was a white flash to Jack's gaze, like an angel passing through the gloom. A fallen angel, Beckett was, from his perfect hands to his white coat a porcelain vessel of arctic cruelty. The smart clicking of Beckett died away. Soon after, the other speaker quickly shuffled in the other direction. He was followed by almost-silent steps. Only then did Jack rise from the ink shadows, face lined and grim.

Reaching the corridor, he peeked left, then right. Except for the bell, this could've been catacombs, it was so still. For a moment he frowned at the floor, considering his options.

He could follow Shuffle and Mercer, or Beckett. Left or right. The chances that Shuffle was headed for an exit were iffy. Shuffle was obviously an interrogator, and those monsters never left their lairs on purpose. They needed a stable environment to grow the bodily fungus that was such a vital part of their image. Beckett's toady, Mercer, who had accompanied Shuffle, was a wolfish man. Always dressed like an undertaker, he had a wiry frame and a grim face with obsidian eyes. Jack did not want to tangle with Mercer, ever. To contrast, Beckett would not linger longer than he had to, because grime would gray his wig. And he was Mercer-less. Chances for escape were much better in Beckett's direction.

"Bugger," Jack said through his teeth, and then slid to the left.

He made it down the corridor without attracting any attention. At the end, he was forced to go right, and was faced with a new intersection.

Right: a lit kitchen. Left: new long corridor. Ahead: stairs headed down into doom.

Jack went left. The corridor's dark end did not look very hopeful. Where had Beckett gone? Jack started when someone sobbed, then kept moving, wary. It was too quiet...

Cutler Beckett strode into the corridor's end, and for a moment Jack's eyes traced his pert profile. Then Beckett turned, stared, then slowly faced Jack with his hands behind his back.

There was a deadly silence. Unable to breathe, Jack waited for twenty guards to clatter up behind the agent. Instead, he heard Beckett speak.

"The escaped prisoner. I should have guessed."

"Y'should've," Jack murmured, still frozen.

Beckett took one step forward. Jack jumped back. Then whirled and rushed back down the corridor.

"Guards!" Beckett shouted.

At the intersection, Jack twisted right, determined to retrace his steps. But men's voices could be heard from that direction–Jack made a one-eighty and stumbled down the stairs into doom just as Beckett reached the intersection with three guards.

"He went downstairs," the agent said with his typical flatness. "Do fetch him."

"Yes, sir..."

Jack was already turning a corner. It was getting darker. This was the wrong way; he'd probably end up on the shores of a sulfur lake. A blur of light from yet another guard room...someone was snoring. Down more stairs, this time into almost complete blackness. The smell was of the dead.

Jack softened his steps when passing a door whose handle was crusted with hairy mold. Behind it, someone was laughing and laughing. Shuddering, Jack was still hearing that insane cackle when he spotted a stairway going up an instant later. Hearing the wild pursuit behind him, he danced up the steps and into a corridor with more than two torches. Delighted, he rushed to its end, and up more stairs–

He'd gone in a circle. An upsy-downy circle but a circle all the same. There was the kitchen on his left and the long corridor on his right; he couldn't see into either. Before him, another blank corridor...

And no Beckett in sight.

Oddly, this made Jack want to stand very still for years if that was what it took to locate the diminutive dragon by sound. He wished he was foolish enough to just run for it, but he was too blasted accustomed to being hunted. Curse the various hunters who had warped him so! He tried to quiet his breathing, and listened.

Either Beckett had wandered off or he could breathe quieter. The guards were still on the loose below...there was nowhere to go but forward. Clenching his jaw so hard his gold teeth squeaked, Jack took one step.

_Click_. He whirled, his various beads making a racket.

Then he cursed so fiercely his guardian angel probably flew away crying.

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Thanks for reading! Mickey Mouse says Please review - positive and negative critisism is welcome. I need to know if I should keep posting!


	2. Let's Chat

**Author's note:** I have to give a huge thank you to Jennifer Lynn Weston and Rokhal for being my first reviewers. It's those first reviews that mean the most, I think.

If you're having a less-than-spectacular day or just want to get happy, read Rokhal's Captain Turner and the Organ. This very insightful look at the Flying Dutchman's new captain will have you laughing in no time!

I also highly recommend Jennifer Lynn Weston's Revelations Between Friends. If you're in the mood for more of Jack's past and wish to observe his astounding proficiency in Latin, check it out right away!

Disclaimer: Donald Duck was getting really mad that I said POTC belongs to Disney and Mickey Mouse, so, in order to get the blasted bird to stop quacking in my ear all the time...

...POTC belongs to Disney and therefore Mickey Mouse AND Donald Duck, may he lose his tail feathers.

-ow sorry! I didn't mean it, Donald, I take it back! ow!-

* * *

**Chapter 2**

Beckett's coat was flawless cream silk; his waistcoat glimmering chocolate satin. His wig with its widow's peak was related to a Persian cat; the curls above his ears would make a lady cry. His cravat was white enough to make snow feel inadequate; his dark hose a second skin delivered by the god of textiles. (Textopheus?) Somehow, Beckett toed the line between a dandy and a parson, a mixture of the pretentious and the drab, fading into the woodwork and catching attention at the same time.

While doing all this, he also managed to lounge against a scarred table and point a pistol at Jack's noggin. A schoolmarm would have been proud of how disparagingly he tut-tut-tutted. "Do come in, Mr. Sparrow."

"_Captain_," Jack growled.

Beckett just smirked and came to the doorway. "I seem to recall your ship being headed for the bottom of the sea, taking your status with her. Now do as you're told, _pirate_, or your weasly black guts will hit the unfortunate end of the corridor behind you. That's twenty feet your innards will be airborne, Sparrow."

"Weasly black guts," Jack raised his eyebrows uselessly at the floor. "I like it." He moved into the doorway.

_Oho- _so this was where the rancid meals served to prisoners came from. There was even a residual smell of pickled cabbage and meal. A rectangular room big enough to fit the impressive table, this dim kitchen had a mysterious cracked door in the back and three huge barrels in a far corner. Next to the cracked door was sizeable woodpile, which sat complacently next to the fireplace gaping along the wall on the right. No light came from the black fireplace, which had an empty pot hook. Two lanterns, one on a barrel and the other near the fireplace, made Beckett's pistol glitter.

Smiling politely, Beckett followed Jack to the end of the table. "Do sit down." There was a light in his hazel eyes that made the hair on Jack's neck stand up. He turned and heaved himself onto the table, then slouched facing the doorway, eyes on his wrist. It was stinging more and more fiercely.

"I expect our little guard friends will be along shortly," Beckett circled to Jack's side, "_if_ they can find their way back up here. You and I are going to stay here, just like this, until they do. And then I am going to have you hung. Either that, or donate you to the Royal Zoo."

"I like gorillas," Jack said listlessly. "Nice manners."

"And this is where your fondness for the brutes has gotten you."

Jack lifted burning eyes. "Is _that_ all those men'n'women are to you? Animals? Y'can't just rip people from their homes, stuff'em in hellish ships, n'then force'em to work for those who ain't their betters. They're human beings, mate, wit' souls. But _you_ wouldn't understand wot it is t'have a soul, would you?"

"My," Beckett said with lazy sarcasm, "what compassionate _passion_. And here I thought you freed a thousand pounds' worth of African flesh just to spite me."

"Well, that too."

"Oh Jack, why don't I just shoot you now? Then I'll have rid myself of the _Wicked Wench_ and her pansy captain in one day."

Jack's fingers twitched. "The _Wench _never did anything t'you."

"Ah but she did, Jack."

"Aye. She became a symbol of insolence an' rebellion. Of pirates. _That's _why yer gonna see her again, along wif many more like her."

"I highly doubt it. When I'm finished, it will take an act beyond human ability to bring either of you back."

The corner of Jack's mouth lifted in a rakish half-grin. "That it will."

Beckett's eyes narrowed. "You know, I'm familiar with a man who collects corpses. How would you like to be stuffed, Sparrow? Put on a stand in a grand hall? Yes," the table trembled as Beckett shifted his weight, gaze averted, "it is grisly." He raised his eyes. The pistol muzzle nudged aside an orange bead in Jack's hair and came to rest on the pirate's jaw. "Yet so deliciously ironic."

"Y'could shoot me now," Jack said softly to the doorway. "But there be no fun in that for either of us, eh mate?"

The icy muzzle lifted. Slowly, Beckett moved in front of Jack, pistol aimed between the pirate's eyebrows. His head barely cleared Jack's, but there was nothing vertically challenged about the death in his face. "I'm not your _mate_." His voice went from impatience to flawless calm. "And you're wrong about the fun."

Khol-lined brown eyes made velvet by the lamplight met flat green-gold eyes, and for an everlasting second each man remained in his place; the victim, the vulture. One squirmed and one gloried.

Then Jack's gaze slid to the side. "D'you hear that?"

Beckett's eyes narrowed. "What?"

"Th'gossiping biddies in Madame Chester's London salon 'pproximately one week from now. Gossiping 'bout Agent Beckett's lack of self-control." Jack's voice squeaked into a British falsetto. "'He simply _blew_ the prisoner's head off. He _should've_ sent the rat to the gallows as an example to all the horrid little criminals running 'round with dirt under their nails. But nooo.'" He shuddered at an invisible listener, batting his eyelids.

Observe how his lashes magically seem longer. (And how Beckett's face shows sickened alarm.)

"'I _say_, that is a _bad_ sign, Regina.'" Jack flipped one hand prettily. "'He's becoming _impulsive_. His enemies will take advantage of this. What say you, young and beautiful Lady Rowe?'"

At the lady's name, color rose to Beckett's cheeks. "You are an escaped prisoner," he spat. "According to procedure, I'm allowed to blast your cursed brains from here to Mumbai."

"Pr'cedure." The corners of Jack's mouth deepened. "Ah, how Brits love their pr'cedures. Pr'cedures make all their problems disappear. In an ambiguous way, 'procedures' define the British, don't they? Now. I meself've already been 'entered' into a 'procedure.'" He lifted his branded wrist. "An'this procedure, as it happens, hasn't been seen through its end."

There was the tiniest furrowing of Beckett's brow. An average man would have missed it. Jack didn't.

"...This pr'cedure being Brand-the-Rat-then-Hang-Him-by-His-Scrawny-Neck. As y'can see, I've been branded, hurrah. But I'm not at the end of a noose yet." Jack leaned forward, voice quieting. "If y'shoot me now, you'll be breaking off Brand-the-Rat-then-Hang-Him-by-His-Scrawny-Neck and implementing Shoot-the-Scrawny-Rat-For-No-Reason...just 'cause it's convenient for your emotional state. In doing so, you'd violate the _very essence_ of stolid ole England. You'd b'tray every stolid citizen, every stolid blade of grass, every stolid pill bug. Y'think no one'd notice? Oh, and," he straightened, "you'd also expose yerself as th'emotional, impetuous weakling you are. Lady Rowe'll fall for'y'then, I'm sure."

Beckett's finger quivered on the trigger. "But, to kill whatever devil speaks through you might be worth it."

"Might."

Beckett glared ferociously. Jack's mustache lifted in a smirk. "You're prob'ly wond'ring," the pirate began, "how I can t'know 'bout you an'Lady Rowe-"

"I am not!" Beckett exploded. Then he blinked and regained a majority of his icy composure. "If you wish to be hanged, Sparrow, hanged you shall be. But _I_ will release the trapdoor beneath your feet. And I will do it ever so slowly."

"Whatever floats yer boat," Jack murmured.

"You will eat your words."

"Yum," said Jack.

The corridor behind Beckett was silent as the grave.

Jack offered to call for the guards and got a terse "Shut it." He gestured submissively, ducking his head and making his beads clack. Tiny beads of sweat glistened on Beckett's upper lip. I'd say his arm is killing him right now.

It became very quiet. Neither man met the other's eyes. It was going to be a long wait.

Jack was very bad a waiting. As a rule, he avoided cliché methods of distraction, but he made an exception for Beckett, glancing over the agent's shoulder and widening his eyes in alarm. Beckett was too smart for this. His eyelids began to lower smugly and in that instant Jack kicked. His toe slammed into Beckett's forearm and the pistol...

Stayed in Beckett's hand. And sent a bullet into the wood ceiling.

I really didn't want to write that, but I cannot tell a lie.

The thunder of the pistol shot ringing in his ears, Jack made a beeline for the door. Though shocked, Beckett managed to reel into Jack's way. Jack was forced to grab Beckett by the shoulders in an attempt to simply remove him. Beckett's silk coat slipped right out of Jack's hands, piratical balance was lost, and Jack's forehead hit the door jamb.

In one fluid motion the pirate ducked and came up with a pistol aimed at Beckett. Silence fell again as the agent froze, wondering where Jack had managed to conceal the firearm. Then he looked at his empty hands, and realized the tables had turned.

"Where's ol'Mercer when y'need him, aye?" Jack said roughly. The danger in his eyes was compromised by the comical way he kept wrinkling his bruised forehead.

The gaze Beckett raised was wide yet resolute. He knew Jack's gold-studded grin was the last thing he'd see. He could take it.

But perhaps he wouldn't have to.

There was shouting somewhere, and the dull thud of approaching footsteps. Clearly, you can't use a firearm and go unnoticed.

Jack's eyes flicked to the ceiling in annoyance, but when they came back to Beckett they were razor-sharp. If Beckett was found in a pool of blood, the entire island would be locked down. Of course, Jack _was_ Captain Jack Sparrow and that meant he could get out of anything. It also meant he was lazy. He didn't want to end up using spoons to paddle a log into the sunset because all other vessels were trapped under British hysteria.

So he asked, "Y'want to live an'continue the good fight? 'Cause I'm ready t'take it all 'way from you."

Running footsteps grew louder.

Beckett's eyes darted between Jack and the door. "Yes," he rasped.

Jack grabbed Beckett by his cravat and dragged him over to the wood pile. Jack sat on the wood pile, tucking up his legs. He pulled Beckett in front of him, turned him to face the doorway, and pushed the pistol into his back. "Then lie yer way outta this. An' keep yer hands where I c'n see 'em."

Beckett wiped his palms on his linen breeches. Then raw noise of three arriving guards made both men stiffen. The guards moved apart, muskets up. Beckett spread his arms.

"Sir!" the oldest exclaimed. "We 'eard a shot. Wot is..." He scooted to see behind Beckett. Jack pressed the pistol harder into Beckett's back.

The agent shifted to block the man's view. "Stay back!" his voice cracked once. "You're interrupting an interrogation. Your reason had better be good."

"Sir?" The leader lowered his musket, eyes wide. His comrades edged closer to him. "We heard a shot."

"_You heard a shot_."

Jack wished he could make his words drip with such disgusted malice.

"A...aye, sir. We all did. Wot with the escaped prisoner an' all..."

Frigid silence.

"If I may be so bold, sir...what are you doing?"

"I already told you. I'm interrogating a prisoner."

"Sir? In a kitchen?"

"Are you saying," Beckett bit out, "that I don't have the right to interrogate _whoever_ I want _wherever_ I want, _whenever _I want?"

"Nay, I-"

"When were you given the right to question me, guard?"

"N-never! But sir," the guard rallied, "somethin' ain't right."

"You're damned correct something isn't right here, and it's you destroying every painstaking bit of progress I've made! Get out! Go and look for that blasted prisoner before I write up this entire fort and every poxy man in it! Get out!"

Mumbling, the unfortunate trio scuttled out. Soon silence fell again. Beckett breathed hard, clenching his fists.

Grinning from ear to ear, Jack clambered off the woodpile. "Beckie, I'm at a loss for words." He circled around and took in Beckett's thunderous expression with delight. Then he frowned and pulled a splinter out of the seat of his breeches.

"Do whatever you're going to bloody do, Sparrow," Beckett snarled.

Jack airily threw the splinter away, then scratched the back of his neck. Then he wiped his nose. "Well."

Beckett waited, got impatient, then exploded. "When I finally get you I am going to make you regret your strumpet of a mother ever whelped you! I-"

Jack flapped his hand. "Yes, yes, yes. Someday, Beckie, you're gonna have t'think of somethin' new t'say to me, or I'll refuse to talk t'you anymore."

"Don't call me Beckie," Beckett growled, baring his teeth.

Jack simpered. "You're so _endearing_ when you're angry."

Beckett's face contorted. In a flash he grabbed Jack's wrist, hand closing over festering brand.

Jack recoiled, the color draining from his face. The pistol hit the floor. Beckett smiled in victory and stooped for the pistol. In doing so, he twisted Jack's tortured skin.

Beckett didn't know what hit him. For those of us who know what a linebacker is, it's easy to understand why. Shoulder down, head tucked, Jack slammed into Beckett's midsection like a cannon ball. Every bit of air left Beckett's body in one _oof_ as he flew back into the pantry and landed on his tail bone. His head hit a crate and his eyes rolled back in his head.

The pantry door hit the shelves then swung mostly closed. The pistol skittered into the fireplace, disappearing into ash.

Sobbing for breath, Jack went to hands and knees beside Beckett. His branded arm refused to support him and he crashed to the floor. Rocking, curling, he tried to ride out an agony he hadn't thought existed. Bright flashes filled his vision and when he tasted blood he knew he was biting his lip too hard. The pain wouldn't let him black out, and that's what he wanted most. He couldn't move, couldn't think.

His cheeks were wet.

Through the roaring in his ears, he heard footsteps enter the kitchen. He felt feverish; he was probably imagining...

The footsteps paused. "Sir?"

_Mercer_.

Jack tried to quiet his breathing, and then stopped bothering. He didn't care. He wished Mercer would just come in and shoot him already.

"Sir," there came a tapping sound, "are you there?"

A mew inches from Jack's ear made him jump. He felt a tiny breeze on his earlobe as a cat sniffed him. Cursing blackly in his mind because his mouth didn't work, he jerked his head. The breeze stopped; he heard a thump and a hiss.

"Sir..." the voice was singsong.

A light pattering went around his head, then out of the pantry. Jack felt agony strangle him again, but managed to shoot _Doghearted barnacle _after the cat before he couldn't think anymore.

Jack didn't like cats.

"Sir Furry the cat!" came the voice, fainter now. "King among fe-lines! There he be! Time for din-din…there you are. Eat up, laddie. Your Da's gotta lock this place up to keep the hungry guards out. What with the gentry givin' us all less to eat, everyone's snitchin'." Heavy steps approached the pantry. "Ev'ryone 'cept your Da." Keys jingled. "I'm no sneak."

_Not Mercer. He's not Mercer. He's-_

Despair had never had much success with Jack Sparrow. But this time, when it pounced, Jack's world went black.

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Now Mickey AND Donald say 'Leave a review!' You keep the reviews coming, and I'll let Jack wake up!  



	3. Wow That Was Short

**A/N:** A thousand thanks to my reviewers. You rock my world and I figure the least I can do is promote you!

If you wish to read something so sweet you'll just melt into a puddle, read Southampton Rose's Sail With Me Into the Horizon. Make sure you ask someone to mop you up and put you in the freezer so you re-form. Otherwise you'll vanish from the face of the earth, doomed to roam forever as a Rogue Puddle.

Disclaimer: I stood up to Donald Duck with help from Jennifer Lynn Weston, but that just made him go get his friends. So now POTC belongs to Disney and Mickey Mouse and Donald and all the angry animated characters lined up outside my room!

* * *

**Chapter 3**

"Jack, y'hugger-mugger! What did ye do t'yerself?"

Jack looked up into a pair of concerned feminine eyes. His gaze traveled downward. Red dress. Delightful décolletage. Who...?

He bit back a curse. His wrist was still on fire.

Then the wench smoothed his brow and he realized he was lying on a bed. And he didn't know where he was.

The cool hand on his brow made him want to mewl, suck his thumb, and go to sleep, but he sat up. Never let anyone say Jack Sparrow didn't throw comfort to the wind when his wellbeing depended on it. Besides, if he sucked his thumb, he'd probably come down with three incurable diseases and die in five seconds.

The wench fluttered around him, murmuring concerned nothings. "Aha," Jack said with utmost calm. Before him was the familiar decor of a delightful lady's lodgings. A small vanity, a gas lamp, dark walls, lacy things on a chair. Drafty, but tolerable. And behind him...

Oh. _That_ was where the draft was coming from.

The back of the room had no wall. Also, the floor disappeared into blue sky and sea, except for a narrow walkway that led along a cliff to busy stables. If one chose to _not_ take the walkway, one would step into midair and fall down the cliff. Then _splash_ in the sea.

A gull flew past calling merrily. A horse whinnied in return.

Jack was deeply perturbed.

"Captain," the wench sat beside him and slid a hand onto his leg, "don't y'like it? The tropical storms bring th'best air...does wonders for the skin and molars."

"Molars?" Jack turned to her, brows wrinkled.

She smiled. Lordy, she had good teeth. "Oh, aye." One cool finger brushed his lower lip. "What's botherin' you, Captain?"

"Aah..." Jack glanced at the gaping wall. "The drop."

"Oh, that?" she gestured to the deadly precipice. "But, I thought ye were a wild one, Captain, one t'love livin' _on the edge_."

Jack gave a sickly laugh. "No pun intended, aye?"

She shrugged, and scratched her arm. Then she looked at him. "What's bothering you, Captain?"

Jack pursed his lips.

"You're in pain," she said, green eyes limpid with sympathy and concern.

The inner mewling, thumb-sucking baby was back. Jack lifted his wrist, grimacing dramatically. "Well, since y'asked..."

She gently took his hand and lowered her head over it. He was temporarily distracted by her beautiful hair. It reminded him of _mousse au chocolat_...mmm, France.

Then she lifted her head, delicate face confused. "There's nothin' there, Captain."

"Wot?" Jack snatched his wrist away and looked at it. It was screaming at him, but the skin was completely undamaged. Apparently the worst it had ever suffered was too much sun.

"It…ow…" Jack looked at the wench. She looked back, deadpan, brows raised. "Fumigating flamingos, _ow_!" Jack jumped up and lurched to the vanity. He shoved his wrist at the mirror and looked at the reflection.

Nothing.

The wench slouched languidly, shaking her head. "Jack, ye were always such a poofy palter-head."

"Poofy-wot?" Jack whirled, eyes huge.

She grinned, and then giggled.

Jack looked around him wildly then stumbled back to her. "Who are you?" he gasped. "Tell me why it hurts."

"Wot?" she stared at him, then lowered her head and howled mirth into the claret coverlet.

"Tell me why it hurts," Jack repeated softly, feeling sick. "Tell me why..."

The wench lifted her head. "It hurts because I branded you," she snapped. "Why I restrained myself to only branding I have no idea."

Jack's jaw dropped.

"Quit gaping like that," she continued in Beckett's voice. "You'll salivate all over the floor."

_Bam_. Horse, gull, cliff, stables, and wench snapped away, leaving a void that smelled of onions. Jack shut his mouth.

"Better. Now bloody sit up before I shove this carrot somewhere painful."

Jack opened his eyes and saw a bulging sack. Potatoes. There was yellow light coming from somewhere. Above the sack stretched endless shelves.

His wrist still hurt. He didn't hold back the curse this time.

"Indeed. Get up."

Jack slowly grabbed a shelf and pulled himself upright inch by inch. He'd never felt so weak. His head pounded as he turned toward the speaker, and saw it was Beckett perched high above on a barrel. He held a tin cup containing a candle in one hand, and a carrot in the other.

Beckett flipped the carrot he held and stonily met Jack's eyes. "Take a good look around, pirate."

Jack did. The weak candlelight revealed a space nine feet long. At one end were two huge barrels, one serving as Beckett's seat. At the other end was a closed door. On the left, three crude shelves held massive cauldrons, ladles, cups, plates, and other pans. On the right, crates and bags of carrots and potatoes and flour and onions were stacked four feet high. They spilled into the center of the space, shrinking its width to about three feet. Leaning against a shelf, Jack could stretch his legs out if he wanted to, but his toes would be poking a fat flour bag. Ugh.

"You should be proud, Jack," Beckett's icy voice brought Jack's gaze back. "You've gotten us locked into a pantry _three stories underground_."

* * *

AND THE PLOT THICKENS TO THE CONSISTENCY OF PEANUT BUTTER - THE CREAMY KIND. HOLD ONTO YOUR HATS AND EYE PATCHES FOR LO, I SEE "CRUNCHY" IN THE NEAR FUTURE. 

Please tell me what you think!


	4. The Pinnacle of Maturity

**A/N**: Thank you so much to Jennifer Lynn Weston and Pirate Trixi for their reviews! They mean a lot to me - I can't say how much.

Disclaimer: So here's what happened. Again following the advice of Jennifer Lynn Weston, I invited every animated character created in the history of Disney over to my house, saying we would "discuss" who POTC belongs to. The arguing started when Grumpy met Tarzan, and soon every single character was arguing with another. I snuck out and it is mercifully quiet here. With relief I state: Pirates of the Caribbean belongs to Disney.

_"Post meridiem" means "pm."_

* * *

**Chapter 4**

Silence.

Then Jack made a mad crawl for the door. He realized he wasn't up for it when the floor jumped out of nowhere and smacked him in the face. Sprawled, he made a noise like a rhinoceros mooing.

Beckett gazed malevolently down on Jack, the candle making a caricature of his pale face. His extra-poofy wig was mussed, with one of the curls sproinging straight out above his ear. He had a goose-egg on the back of his head and his coat sleeve was half ripped at the shoulder. But he hadn't lost his deadly aplomb.

"You've impeccable timing." He set the candle down and freed a watch fob from his waistcoat pocket. He turned its face to the candlelight. "It is now eight thirty-seven post meridiem. The kitchen out there is completely deserted and will remain so until six-thirty tomorrow." With a snap that made Jack jump, Beckett closed his watch and shoved it back into its place. "I would consider pounding on the door, but the kitchen itself has been locked from the corridor. We're completely cut off. It would be a waste of effort."

The world turned expectantly to Jack Sparrow for his reaction.

Staring at the crack under the door, which was dreadfully dark, he made a noise like a kitten neighing. An awkward silence followed, because nobody knew that sort of noise was possible.

"The guards are on fifteen-minute circuits," Beckett finally continued. "Even if we pounded on the door and they heard it, they'd dismiss it as some prisoner making a fuss."

So abruptly that Beckett tensed to throw his carrot, Jack flipped over. He scuttled back against the door and then brought his knees to his chest and rested his forehead on them. As he expected, his world began spinning like a top.

Beckett smirked his thin lips. "You look awful. That disgusting black lining around your eyes is halfway down your cheeks – what, did you cry, Jack?"

No response.

"Try not to puke for both our sakes, Jack. We've ten hours to spend in here together."

At the _ten hours_ Jack's head slowly lifted. He stared at Beckettt dully for one full minute, face sagging. Then he began to scan the shelves desperately. "Bring that candle over."

"Why?"

"I 'magine Cook has a stash of some sorta liquor in here." Jack slowly turned to get on his knees. "Maybe rum."

Beckett stared. Jack was absentmindedly wiggling his fingers. Good Gog, the man never stopped twitching!

Then Beckett realized what Jack had said. He slid off the barrel, squeezing the carrot, which was slippery with sweat. "No," he said through clenched teeth, "you are not going to look for rum. You are going think of a way out of here. _You got us in, you get us out_."

Beckett wasn't shouting. Beckett never shouted. But his voice rose and his enunciation snapped words into the ear like hammer blows. Jack, on his knees in front of a shelf, turned with half his face scrunched. "So says the tiny man wif a carrot, who, might I add, got himself an' meself into this mess by grabbing the wrist of meself, which, might I _also_ add, had a brand on it. Said brand being inflicted by you."

"Is it truly impossible for you to talk like a _homo sapien_?" Beckett demanded with sudden peevishness.

"A wot?" Jack gave Beckett a smile from under his brows. "I'm an unlearned bilge rat, mate. Me an' you-there's nothin' _homo-_logous about us. If we was tree sap, y'wouldn't see us _sapien'_ from th' same tree."

Nope, I didn't understand that, either. Sorry.

Jack pulled out a tin and peered inside. With a grimace he tossed it behind him.

Beckett rolled his eyes, and then shook his head. "No. _No. _We were talking about how you're going to find a way out of here. Or else I'll set your hair on fire."

Jack looked at Beckett, who had candle flames reflected in his eyes. "Now _there's_ the obvious threat for this situation, seein' as you're the one with fire _and_ a personality I can easily see approachin' a pyromaniac's. Congratulations, you c'n think up the obvious."

He stuck his head in between two cauldrons. "Hello?" It echoed, "_Hello...hello...hello..."_

_Thwack_ on Jack's shoulder.

He pulled his head back out, frowning, lower lip stretched. He glanced at the floor.

A carrot, ringed with sweaty mud, lay on the floor. Jack looked at Beckett. The man was standing carrot-less, his eyes squinted up in rage.

"Cut the bilge and forget your blasted rum. The only thing you're good for is thinking of bloody ways to get out of things and you had better start, or your usefulness will be at an end." He reached behind him and brought out the cup with the candle. "I _am_ the one with the fire, Sparrow, and I'd love to singe your filthy wings."

"My, that was almost poetic," Jack said wryly, coming to his feet. Then the humor vanished and Beckett got the full force of one of Jack Sparrow's glare-stares. "But seein' as _you're_ the one what thought t'turn _me_ into a slimy slaver, therefore beginnin' this whole cataclysm in th'first place, I vote _you_ use whatever brains're hiding under that derisory wig an' get _yerself_ out. Savvy?" Jack's eyes crinkled, but not like he was going to smile. "_I'm_ gonna look for rum." He began to dig around some bowls.

"Like bloody hell you are."

"Like pristine heaven I _is_."

Carrying the candle, Beckett stalked toward Jack, who grabbed a platter for protection and slinked back. He hit the door and frowned from behind his shield at Beckett, who stopped with his nose six inches from the platter. The two men peered at each other. The flickering red candlelight lit Beckett's face from below, turning him into a ghoulish cherub.

"You're so calm, Jack," said Beckett quietly. "It's as if you don't comprehend the situation at all."

"I've discovered th'secret of blissful _ignore_-ance, mate." Jack's voice sounded tinny and hollow.

Beckett's eyes revealed his smirk. "You've got one problem, Jack. You can't ignore me."

Jack frowned and looked to the right.

"Oh, and there is no rum in here, Jack. I already looked."

Jack's eyes snapped back to Beckett's. "Wot?"

"It was the first thing that came to my mind when I woke up," Beckett said smugly. "You were still swooning."

Jack's knuckles were white on the platter. "You're makin' that up, y'hedge pig."

"Sadly, no. Jack, it truly pains me to tell you…we think the same way."

Jack eyes went unfocused in despair. It wasn't possible. How could Beckett think like him? The cold-blooded lizard thought like him. _He_ thought like a cold-blooded lizard!

Beckett almost laughed at Jack's miserable eyes until they changed, the lax liquid fading into a black fierceness that did not bode well. Sure enough, Jack smacked Beckett in the face with the platter- _thonk._ Shocked, Beckett simply toppled over, the cup flying from his hand…

...and the burning candle flying from the cup.

"Bugger!" Jack lunged for the candle but ended up flipping it so it landed on a flour bag. Instant combustion. Jack threw himself at the flames that began licking over the cheap hemp, but drew back when his wrist yelped a warning. He didn't want more burns.

Beckett pressed himself to the barrels and paused his cursing to exclaim, "What are you doing? Put it out!"

"But _why_?" The growing flames lit Jack's angular face like a devil's. "Have you ever considered burning t'death? It'll make y'so much more glamorous to' the gossips, mate."

Beckett gaped, utterly aghast.

Fading behind a scrim of smoke, Jack grinned wickedly, and then began to stomp on the flames. Flour rose around his knees, flickering orange. The smell of burnt leather joined all the other charred scents.

Then, with the extinguishing of the last flame, everything simply disappeared into blackness.

Between horrendous coughs, Beckett snarled, "You b------!"

Huddling on the powdery floor, Jack coughed and laughed at the same time. It sounded like a dying horse. "The look…on yer face!"

"You'll…pay…"

"That just ain't Christian, mate."

"Christianity doesn't even touch…the likes of you."

"_You_ were the one what...lit the candle in the first place. Y'keep blaming me fer every mistake y'make an' I'm telling you, mate...a scapegoat c'n only handle so much."

"You look like a goat, you rat."

"So now I'm a goat _and_ a rat."

"Just suffocate already."

"You're welcome fer saving yer life."

Something slammed into the door above Jack and fell _kerplop_ on his leg. _What now?_ Irritably, Jack twisted, trailing his hair over his brand, which made him curse. Of course, he couldn't see a thing.

_Wham_. Something hard hit him on the temple.

"That sounded promising," Beckett's venomous voice issued from the darkness. "Do you mind telling me where it hit you?"

A spear of pain was jabbing Jack behind his eyes as he grabbed the projectile. It was roundish, bumpy, and gritty…he sniffed it, dug a fingernail into it.

Potato. The _beckettum villainum_ had hit him with a _solanum tuberosum._ "I do mind!" Jack rose to his hands and knees and hurled it back. It hit the wall, but an instant later another potato smacked Jack in the chest. Hard. After all, their throws couldn't be further than eight feet.

It was in this instant that Jack lost it.

Jack was good at making mental lists. He was so good; it was a point of personal pride. Indeed, in one of his less-lucid moments, he had considered becoming a Pirate Loot Inventory-Taker. It was a fool-proof plan because 1) He would be aiding others which would 2) get him on the good sides of saints wandering around, and 3) allow much pilfering of the loot inventoried. But he'd been young and naïve back then, and...he doesn't go beyond this point in the story because it embarrasses him too much.

But Jack had been working on the Mother of All Lists for a while. This is sort of what it looks like. (Items 6-21 are very short because they were made up mostly of dirty words which we had to cut out to understand.)

_Why Captain Jack Sparrow is Allowed to Hold a Grudge Against the World_

1. Fate sets Jack up for heartbreak by giving him lovely ship called _Wicked Wench_. Jack falls in love because wood stays around longer than women do.

2. Beckett has the nerve to compromise The Moral Code of Jack Sparrow by asking him to ship human beings into bondage instead of letting them run free with the giraffes and lions and piranhas...wait, piranhas live in the Amazon.

3. Jack has to stop drinking rum and think how he is going to deal with the situation.

4. Jack decides to let his cargo free in Africa, and enjoys their adoration and gifts of fruit and nice rocks (it was fine that they didn't have rum; he still had plenty on the _Wicked Wench_.)

5. Jack is penalized for this selfless contribution to the wellbeing of Mankind: the _Wicked Wench_ caught and pummeled and sunk, _with rum on board_

6. Jack is branded

7. Jack is imprisoned

8. Jack hasn't had rum for days

9. Jack is about to escape

10. Jack runs into Beckett; Beckett grabs Jack's hurt wrist

11. Jack hasn't had rum for days

12. Jack gets locked in pantry with Beckett

13. Beckett thinks same way Jack does

14. Jack hasn't had rum for days

15. Beckett lights candle and insults Jack, causing ignition of flour bag

16. Everything is dark

17. Jack hasn't had rum for days

18. Jack's brand hurts

18. Beckett blames Jack and throws vegetables

19. Jack hasn't had rum for days

20. Jack may never get out of pantry

21. Jack may never drink another drop of rum

Teeth gritted, curse words slipping out between them, Jack recalled the layout of the pantry. Feeling to the right with his good hand, he victoriously plucked an onion out of the nearest crate. He sat back and stomped on the vegetable, crushing it into several pieces.

The world would just see how well Beckett liked _allium sepa_ in the eye courtesy of _jackilae vengefulus_.

Jack hurled the floury onion pieces into the dark just as the acrid fumes rose to his face. He heard an exclamation, and then a horrendous sneeze. Eyes streaming and nose tickling, he barked, "Ha!"

"That's the worst you can-_achoo_!-do?" came the grated response. Jack threw himself to the floor and an instant later two potatoes hit the door and fell on top of him. Then _bam_ another. _Bam_ another.

Jack had almost put his face in what was left of the onion. Rising, coated in sweat, he gave himself over to an onion-throwing frenzy. Almost immediately, Beckett responded in kind.The pantry resounded with thunks and thuds and expletives as the men cursed each other, and soon Jack ran out of onions and lunged for the shelves. His hand hit a stack of bowls and they clattered to the floor.

"What are you bloody doing?" came Beckett's enraged voice, along with another potato.

"Wait an' see..." Jack grabbed two and hurled them.

The ensuing battle was so epic the pantry mice retold it for generations.

Jack heard Beckett's feet hit the floor and stood up himself. He threw two more bowls; Beckett hit him with another onion; Jack seized a ladle, realized something was stuck to the bottom of his boot, threw the ladle, got a bowl in the neck; Beckett got a ladle in the chest; Jack was hit by three carrots all at once; a serving platter smacked Beckett on the nose; Jack threw cauldrons-_one-two-three-four_; Beckett growled and threw an empty crate; Jack growled back and pulled everything off he shelf that he could reach-CRASH; Beckett stooped and the platter hit Jack's shins; Jack realized again that something was stuck to the sole of his boot; Jack threw a handful of spoons while wishing he could find knives; Beckett got a crate in the midsection; Jack took a potato to the ear; Beckett tried to charge but tripped over a cauldron and fell to his hands and knees; Jack bumped into a flour sack and got an idea; Beckett got up; Jack lifted the flour up; Beckett charged again more cautiously; Jack also charged with the flour sack; Beckett hit Jack…actually, he hit the flour sack held in front of Jack.

At this point in the story, all the mice pay homage to the God of Thunder, because this was when the deity spoke.

The impact of Beckett hitting the flourbag held by Jack was horrendous, incredible, baffling. Twin _oofs!_ floated above the great rumble and then both men fell backward. Multiple mice went half-deaf when the enemies (and the flour bag) hit the floor. Trembles and aftershocks came for hours afterwards.

Jack and Beckett realized their legs were entangled. They scrambled away, making a huge ruckus. The floor was feet-deep in stuff.

There simply was no way to catalog the various things biting into Jack's back. He tried to catch his breath, eyes streaming, curses flowing from his lips as pain radiated from his wrist. There wasn't an inch of him not covered in sweat. Beckett groaned somewhere. The air was unbearable. Humid, smoky, acid with onion, its temperature had risen five degrees. It was like breathing suffocation itself.

"Well this...is lovely," Jack said. "I've always dreamed of dyin' from onion smothering. It's so ignominious…how can y'not love it? "

"Shut up." Beckett sounded congested and exhausted, but his slow order still held starch. Jack breathed deeply, and then sneezed so hard he had to make sure his nose was still on his face.

Silence fell. They both lay there, marinating in smoky onion-ness…with a sprinkling of despair for extra tastiness. In the wall, mice began construction of an altar for the God of Thunder.

Since most of them were now deaf, it was going to take a while.

**Enjoy-ful? Aw-ful? Please review and tell me!**


	5. What Now?

**A/N:** I have to give a massive thank you to Jennifer Lynn Weston for recommending my story - I have never been so inspired after reading the reviews that resulted and I'm still reeling in amazement. Wow, there are lots of r's in that last sentence.

Thank you to society over there for the hilarious suggestion for Beckett's latin name. Thank you to pirate trixi, pinkbagels, geekmama, panzergal, Stella, and ArieiDelmonte for reviews that came just when I needed them. You are so encouraging, I can't say how much without putting you to sleep with neverending expressions of gratitude.

_People who get annoyed when authors have these huge sections that aren't story and are just responses to stuff, feel very free to skip ahead. :)_

To panzergal: I have this terrible need to please everyone, but I can't make this story a Speckett because I don't write slash. Also, I don't want to get into the sexual side of things - I just want this story to be as clean fun as I can get it. Thank you so much for your interest and your review!

To Stella: Your review was wonderful and made me think. And I agree with you - the _'"What?" said everyone'_ isn't as effective. I've changed it - please check it out and if you have more thoughts on it, tell me.

Disclaimer: Well, the 2-D people are still arguing and I'm still sitting here in peace. HA. HA. And I don't own POTC.

* * *

**Chapter 5**

Neither pantry prisoner could say how long he lay in that terrible mess, fighting despair and rage and suffocation. It felt like forever.

Jack stirred. There was a ladle digging into the back of his thigh. Also his wrist was hurting so badly he couldn't lie still. This was the kind of pain that could only be survived by relentless pacing and knocking one's head against a wall. Or a bottle of rum. But he was rumless. The thought almost brought tears to his eyes.

Ants will rebuild an anthill ruined by a child's foot. Jack could feel his hopeless misery falling victim to the same demented urge to rebound. So he slowly sat up, grimacing when a potato and what had to be a spoon dug into his rear. One of his legs was thrown over a cauldron; he slowly pulled it off and his foot made a crash. Some feet away, he could hear Beckett stirring, too.

His head was woozy, he was still drenched in sweat, and the temperature was ungodly, but the air didn't seem as smoky as it had been. His wrist throbbed and he gingerly touched the inside of his forearm. The delicate contact felt like a scratch; his entire forearm was more sensitive than his lips after a kiss. Jack froze to contemplate a new, ominous thought. He was in danger of losing his arm. It had remained uncovered in the filthiest places and the brand had to be swarming with beasties ready to eat him alive from the inside. It wouldn't be long before his entire body threw itself into the fight against invasion and gave him a fever. He needed to cover the brand somehow…his stomach roiled. He couldn't even see his hand in front of his face.

How much longer before he went stark raving mad?

"How should I know? It's blacker than almighty pitch in here," Beckett snapped.

How Jack _hated_ it when his mouth decided to announce what he was thinking without his permission. "Shut up," he mumbled.

"Pardon me?" was the murderous response.

"Keep yer shirt on, y'sensitive little man. I was sayin' it to meself."

Beckett cursed. Jack tsked.

Silence.

Beckett coughed once. He whooped a deep breath. Big mistake - he began hacking so hard Jack knew that soon he would be shanghaied into searching for a coughed-up Beckett lung. Jack carefully reached and plucked up the first object he encountered: a bowl.

He wriggled until his rear encountered smooth floor, then scooted to the left, causing a massive buildup of mess along his leg. He flailed with the bowl and hit a shelf. He carefully set the bowl on the shelf, which was cursed empty. Then he rested, wondering why he didn't feel like a better person.

Aie! A carrot poking into – no, we do _not_ need to know.

Beckett was still coughing so hard he didn't have time to breathe. Listening, Jack slowly grabbed a plate and set it next to the bowl. At this rate Beckett would kill himself. _Ha_. Jack grinned at the tableau searchers would encounter in the morning...

They'd open the door. Kitchenware and food would leap out on a blast of air from Hell itself. They'd see Beckett first because of his white coat, slumped over the barrels. Then they'd see Jack gibbering on the floor in a fever.

That was when Jack wondered why he was grinning. Because no, this image was not at all amusing. Frowning, Jack hesitantly raised his good hand and slapped himself on the cheek. Then he nodded. Much better; the twisted thought was gone. Jack Sparrow knew when discipline was called for. Spare not thy son the rod and all that. Yes indeed.

If you're staring blankly at Jack, you're not alone because I am, too.

What's this - he's displaying the typical behavior of an embarrassed _Jackilae Sparrus_: clearing his throat, pursing his lips, and twiddling his good fingers above his sash. (I hope you're taking notes.)

Can he sense us?

Beckett was still coughing. And Jack was getting an ominous catch in his chest. Soon Jack would follow Beckett into Hacking Land. Then they'd have to search the floor for both their lungs and mixups were possible. Jack grimaced. To have a Beckett lung would be worse than death, since Jack was convinced Beckett had never moved faster than a brisk walk, ergo he would have lungs unsuitable for any person wishing to survive without help.

Grimly, Jack rummaged through the mess surrounding him. When his fingers touched the slender shaft of a candle, he seized it and realized that the bottom half of the candle had broken off. No matter. All he had to do now was discover how Beckett had lit the first candle.

"'scuse me," Jack said to Beckett in his best voice.

Beckett sounded like he was strangling himself. But he stopped coughing long enough to say "Bloody hell" before going at it again.

A tiny cough sneaked out of Jack's mouth. Desperately, he held his breath until the urge to cough passed.

"Excuse me," he began again, "but how did you light the first candle?"

At the other end of the pantry, two dogs tore each other to shreds. Not really. That's just what it sounded like. "Water-" Beckett gasped.

"You know well as me there's no water in here. Not even rum," Jack added snidely. "Eat a potato r'something."

The dogs kept ripping at each other. But then, miracle of miracles, they began to tire. A minute later, Beckett was gasping shallow breaths between desperate swallows.

"Illumination," Jack said solemnly, "is the first step on the path to wisdom and being able to lord it over people. I havest the candle. Havest thou the fire?"

Beckett made a noise between a laugh and a choke. "What…_are _you?" His voice was gravelly.

Jack sniffed the candle and realized he couldn't smell anything. His nose was traumatized and rather like a stuffed pig. (Without the apple in it's mouth, obviously.) "Nasal constipation," he muttered to himself. Ew, his mustache was full of…

"You're _what?_"

"I wasn't - I'm not - we need a light."

Talking to someone invisible was so odd.

"Oh I agree." Despite it all, Beckett's voice was superbly biting. "Light a candle, will you, old chap?"

"I already told you, I am in possession of a candle. I need fire."

"So you can burn everything down this time?" Beckett sneered condescendingly, but his voice cracked. "People with survival in their futures generally don't repeat idiotic mistakes."

"We keep running up against this selective amnesia, mate. _You _lit the candle. By the Cuttlefish's Kick, you need psychiatric help."

Beckett cleared his throat. "So says the man whose face has more paint on it than a lady posing on a street corner."

"Now that ain't _fair_," Jack drawled. "My cheeks're as virginal as when me mother birthed me."

"_That_ explains everything."

Jack chuckled and fingered his dreadlocks fondly. "So, back to the point, Beckie. What you're sayin' is, y'want to sit in the dark for ten hours. Well, that's savvy. I don't mind 'cause I won't have gaze upon yer face, which would scare the rear end off a baboon. I was just thinkin' it could be advantageous, gainful, an' therefore personally rewarding t'have a light. Also, I 'eard in the London scuttlebutt that you have a crippling fear of the dark. Can't y'see I'm extendin' an olive branch here?"

There was a silence.

"You know something, Jack?"

"Aye, Cutler?"

"_Don't call me that_. I think I should get very angry. But oddly, I feel no inclination to do so."

"The smoke's gotten to yer thimble-sized brain. You'll recover to yer pincushion self soon."

"When you were born, did your mother drop you on your head every day?"

"How can you suggest such a thing?" Jack squawked. "No, no, me mum was the epitome of loving and gentle. Until me Da cut her head off."

"Really?" Beckett sounded too delighted to be proper.

"I refuse to divulge anythin' else 'till you light this blasted candle, y'giglet."

"And what's a giglet, Jack?" Beckett's voice turned coy.

"An _insulting_ name," Jack growled. "Now how did you light that first candle?"

"No need to get brusque," Beckett rolled the _r _in _brusque_ as silkily as he could, which wasn't very because his throat was still a shambles. "I have a flint and steel. But we can't just light a candle with that. We need a taper to light first."

"Hair might work too," Jack suggested innocently. "Your hair isn't even yer own..."

"Or perhaps we could use a dreadlock," Beckett shot back.

"Oh aye, when eels swallow whales whole."

"I've never heard that one before." Beckett started rummaging around.

"Paints a cute image in the ole noggin, doesn't it?" Jack said cheerily. Objects clattered. "Rather like pythons underwater..."

No response. Then a scraping noise. Suddenly, sparks bloomed over an arena on the floor that had a slender taper lying down its center. Jack had the impression of Japanese fireworks over a jungle of odd shapes: ladles, spoons, a plate like a dull mirror...Jack's eyes fastened on Beckett's white hand just before it vanished.

A muttered oath from Beckett.

Then more sparks rained over the taper, and one caught. A sliver of flame rose from the taper, burying tiny blue talons in the delicate wood. It trembled as it expanded, stretching timidly to a height of one centimeter.

_Enthralling_.

Jack maneuvered closer, barely breathing. The urge rose to beat his chest and yodel in victory. He wished he could pat Prometheus on the back, thanking the rebellious Greek god for bringing fire to men against the will of Zeus. A god after Jack's own heart, that Prometheus.

Jack tore his eyes from the growing flame. His gaze landed on Beckett's ice hands, which rested near the grainy floor, holding the steel and taper. In the warm light, Beckett's nails were flawlessly shaped...but they were dirty now. Jack smirked smugly and looked up. He saw Beckett's face just as the agent tore his own eyes from the flame. Their eyes met from where they knelt and their unprepared faces, softly suggested by reddish light, revealed something to each.

"Candle?" Beckett rasped, breaking the spell. He delicately plucked the taper off the floor and extended it.

"Aye." Jack brought the candle, which was getting mushy and slimy in his hand, into the light. Its length was a very anticlimactic four inches, but the wick was undamaged. An instant later, the wick caught flame, and they were in business again.

"We need-"

"-more candles," Beckett finished Jack's statement, and then looked unnerved with himself. An equally unnerved Jack hurriedly turned away.

In silence, the men rummaged about the mess for more candles. Minutes later, five burning candles had been placed in piles of wax around the pantry. (Or as the mice call the pantry: The Plains of Vegetable and Human-Stuff Carnage. Little mouselings still go on field trips to this historical location, and have to write 300-word essays about it on slices of cheese, which the teacher eats as she grades. The teacher is very fat.)

It was painful to return to the land of the un-blind because the mess was incredible. An onion lodged between two barrels. A platter randomly sitting on the highest shelf. Utter confusion on the floor.

But far more spectacular were the mess-makers standing at their respective ends of the pantry, separated by a sea of chaos.

Beckett's coat had huge sweat rings under the arms, and there were greenish onion shards caught in his now-frizzy wig. A discolored swelling was beginning on his cheekbone and he had a streak of flour on his neck. One of his stockings lay loose around his ankle, and the other one was so ripped it fluttered when Beckett moved. His coat, breeches, and waistcoat were completely soiled with dirt and flour. His face was red and shiny, his eyes swollen, and he had flour on his nose.

Jack grinned hugely, and his cheeks felt stiff. He touched his cheek and his fingertip came away black.

He did indeed have khol all over his face. A glance down showed he had snow-white boots and breeches. When he shifted, flour poofed off his legs. His plain white shirt was ripped in the sleeve, his right shin hurt when he put his weight on it, and bruises were blooming on what he could see of his chest. He also realized something was stuck to the underside of his boot. A glance showed it to be the infamous candle that had started the blaze, plastered to his sole in a lumpy puddle of hardened wax.

Beckett snorted, then winced when his throat protested. "Well done, Jack," he sneered, "You'd best start cleaning up."

"Me?" Jack's branded wrist was throbbing...no, his entire hand and arm were throbbing. It was like a razor-toothed monster was gnawing on his arm. "We're in this together, Cutler," he snapped with sweet venom. "I, being the injured party, in fact have less aid to contribute to the amending of this situation, so if y'want this situation t'improve, you'd better be ready to soil yer pretty little hands."

Beckett drew himself up. Jack didn't know whether to laugh or be impressed. Beckett certainly knew how to pull dignity about him like a robe. "I will do no such thing."

Jack rolled his eyes. "Very well, then." He kicked free a square foot of space and sat down. His head was spinning. "I hope you enjoy sitting on forks."

Beckett swore. "You are such a stupid lout."

"Sticks an' stones, dear Cutler. Although, coming from you, it's more like twigs and pebbles."

"This is all your doing!" Beckett suddenly bellowed. "You arrogant son of a pig, you cesspool-born slug, you blasted bilge rat from the warrens of hell!"

Jack's eyes hardened. "You're just too girly t'admit your craven swag-bellied self got us in here – you grabbed me wrist – you knew I'd react. You' re just a bestubbering milk-livered gut-griping _dewberry_."

"You're one to speak, _pirate_." Filthy, trapped, Beckett was rapidly losing control. "I will _not _stay in here with you, you rank sack of slime, you will rip that door apart even if it wears your fingers to stubs and oh, I will see you hung but not before I see you tortured within an inch of your scrappy life!"

"Ha! _You_ can't even bear to crack yer own fingernails, I'm sure Lady Rowe wants baggage as manly as you!"

"Don't bring her into this," Beckett's voice went ominously quiet, "unless you want your own nails ripped off by hot pincers when we get out of here."

"An'the chances of _that_'re just blimey thrilling."

Jack's words hung in the stifling air. Both men deflated miserably.

Blimey thrilling.

* * *

I say we re-acquaint ourselves with outside happenings, and let Jack and Beckett suffer alone. We're going to bounce around a little. We get 10 seconds at each new observation location. 

Here we are in the dungeon. You'll be happy to know that it is a cliché dungeon with knives and whips and metal cages and pincers and cauldrons with bubbling oil. On a table lies an emaciated man with long hair and a torturer is approaching with pincers that glow orange and Mercer is smil-

Here we are in the officer's mess. Supper is long-finished and servants are sweeping away crumbs from the polished tables. This is to avoid a Tahitian rat infestation. Everyone knows that Tahitian rats will gnaw your fingernails when you're asleep. I'm honestly not sure what the problem is with this because people of this time period chewed their nails down anyway, which is bad for oral hygiene-

Here we are in the latrine. Here we are _exiting_ the latrine.

Here we are on the battlements. It is a cool night with a caressing breeze and the stars are out. From the distance comes the soothing _shushhh...shushhh _of the Caribbean in all its mellowness. An undulating hiss issues from the fronds of a palm tree as the breeze ambles by. It's as if you can hear the world breathing sleepily. Brimstone Fortress' massive cannons are at rest, smiling at a becalmed horizon.

Here we are far out at sea. We hover before the surging bowsprit of the _H.M.S. Extremely Formidable_. There, the stiff wind plays with the brunette curls framing the face of a tall, slender woman just out of girlhood. She wears a simple baby-blue traveling gown that is so flawlessly tailored, one doesn't even notice it. The amber light of the for'ard lanterns catches in her quiet blue eyes and gives color to her otherwise pale cheek-

Here we are following an admiral down the deck of the _Extremely Formidable_. "Good evening, Howard." He nods to one of the Marines on watch. "Evenin', Admiral Rowe," the man replies smartly. Slowly, the Admiral approaches his daughter in her blue dress where she stands at the bowsprit. She turns and smiles at him.

We pull back into the liquid blue darkness. Soon the _Extremely Formidable_ is a tiny arrowhead pointed straight toward St. Kitts and Brimstone Fortress.

There be games afoot!

**Please review! I honestly feel a bit iffy about this chapter and hope you'll tell me if there was anything that confused you. Sometimes the stuff coming out of my head doesn't make sense to anyone else.

* * *

**Now head over and check out geekmama's _Drabbles of the Caribbean_ (if you haven't already). It truly is amazing what this writer can say in 100 words!

If you're looking for a thoughtful take on Norrington, check out ArieiDelmonte's _James Norrington: Captain, Commodore, Admiral_. She worked hard on it and I think it is very worth your time.


	6. Getting to Hate You

**A/N:** Thank you, thank you, THANK YOU to geekmama, Jennifer Lynn Weston, TavyBeckettFan, Starling Rising, Ariei Delmonte, meowbooks, Eldonyx, and Panzergal for their reviews! It was incredible to get that response which, again, came just when needed. I will work hard to keep you all interested!

To Panzergal: I totally agree that Jack and Beckett have a lot in common and they don't like it. That is one of the funniest things about them. I am so glad you laughed and thank you very, very much for the encouragement about my style. You made me smile! Oh look, those last two sentences rhyme. Golly wolly. ;)

Disclaimer: I just peeked outside and saw Princess Jasmine throwing Pinocchio into a potted plant. I think now may be a good time leave the premises, but I'm laughing too hard. Poor Pinocchio. And poor me, I don't own POTC.

* * *

**Chapter 6**

I have smelling salts for you. I've used them myself and that's why my eyes are red and my nose is running.

This will seem very random until you observe what is going on in the pantry.

Yes, I know. Try not to collapse. We're all asking the same thing right now: Why is Jack packing kitchenware into a shelf with his foot? Why is Beckett stretching to push a cauldron back just a bit further onto another shelf? Who the heck thought up chocolate covered ants? Who wants insect legs stuck between their teeth?

So anyway. Look at this! Look at THIS! The floor is smeared with flour, but it's clear of all kitchenware and vegetables. The shelves are packed sloppily, but nothing will be falling off any time soon. Beckett and Jack have been busy.

Somewhere, their mothers are dabbing away tears of pride... _Ah yes,_ sighs Beckett's mother, _forcing_ _Cutler to clean up those adorable mock executions he set up in the nursery taught him to value neatness._

_Aye,_ replies Jack's mother_, Jack hated it when I'd make him clean up his fruit sculptures, but it paid off an' no mistake._

This doesn't make me feel better. They were having such a grand argument before...we leave these two alone for a few seconds and everything goes to potted petunias!

Well, drat. Apparently desperate situations can make temporary allies out of arch enemies. This seemed to embarrass both men, because they surveyed their work without meeting each other's eyes. The candlelight would not let them ignore the fact that they'd worked together.

Jack was pondering the devastation he felt when a bullet of agony raced up his arm and into his collarbone. The shocked mental protest _I didn't touch anything! _was lost as the pantry began to swing like a pendulum. He leaned back against the door and slowly slid down, curling to the left until his head was on the floor. His bad wrist lay on the floury floor where he could see it.

Beckett smiled and primly sat down on a barrel. "I forgot, Jack." His voice was still rough. "That brand was never tended to, was it?"

The waves of pain were receding but Jack couldn't think anything beyond _If these shots of pain're the new routine, I'll choke meself to death on a carrot. _

Beckett smugly lifted his nails for inspection and jumped when he saw how filthy they were. Disgusted, he began picking the dirt out from under his thumbnail. "Well, try not to die, Jack. I want to watch you hang." A tiny, feral smile curled his lips as he stared at an invisible version of the spectacle on his baby fingernail. "I expect you'll be happy to finally swing above Jack Ketch by the time we get out of this."

Jack drew deep breaths through his nose, staring through the beginnings of tears at his tormented limb. His fingers were puffy -he'd never get his rings off ever again- and the brand itself was literally rising above the rest of his wrist, the skin around it straining. The clear liquid was turning milky now.

"Do you ever wonder why all hangmen are called Jack Ketch?" Beckett asked conversationally. "Where did that come from?"

He needed to cover it. He needed to clean it, for love of everything holy. Every second spent in here only brought him closer to limb-disaster. Jack wondered if he lay still, sleep would come over him and he could wake up when it was time to walk out.

He swallowed, gathering himself. Fate had already proved so cruel; he highly doubted she'd favor him with sleep. Slowly, he pushed himself upright with his good hand. His head spun gently, but he carefully pulled his legs in front of him and finally rested, propped against the cursed door.

Beckett stopped pondering Jack Ketch in order to survey Jack Sparrow. "You look like plum pudding that's been dropped in a rain barrel twice."

Jack's expression never changed from flat pain. "You're starting t'sound like me."

"Am I?" Beckett looked worried for a moment but he quickly hid it. "If that happens, I'll add finger-breaking to the long list of tortures I have in mind for you once we get out."

"Savvy."

"And all that torture will come _after_ Mercer plays with you." Beckett smiled a T-Rex smile. "When he finds us, you two will have a most marvelous interlude."

"Now there's a side of Cutler Beckett he doesn't want anyone to see," Jack responded softly, the smallest smile bringing out his exotic cheekbones. "The side what says, 'Wait till my big brother finds us; he'll wallop you for me.'"

"Oh, he _will_ wallop you, Jack."

"Don't count me bruises before they appear, Cutler. A lot c'n happen in ten hours."

The veiled threat was not lost on Beckett, but he smirked and pulled out his pocket watch. "You seem to have agreed that we should address each other on a first-name basis. After what we've been through, I'm delighted you've come around. Our relationship has surely progressed." He gave Jack a coy look, and then sneezed comically.

Jack made a face between a grimace and a smile.

Beckett sniffed. With a fabulous flick of his wrist (which sent a ragged piece of lace flying), he flipped open his watch. "It's not ten hours. It's actually eight hours and forty-three minutes. Of course, that's only if the piece of sludge running this kitchen is on time tomorrow morning..."

"Try not t'be so optimistic, mate."

"Very well, but only for you."

"I was wonderin', did y'try the door while I was still swooning?"

Beckett gave Jack a heavily-lidded look. "No. I just poked around looking for rum. Of _course_ I tried the door. It's locked with a padlock. The wood is practically petrified. The hinges were made by maniac."

Jack stared at his wrist.

Beckett seemed to enjoy the pirate's mute despair until his own depression swelled. With a quiet sigh, he began to pick at his ring fingernail, and then dropped his hands into his lap in frustration. He looked up and his eyes widened.

Jack was tugging his shirt loose from his sash.

"What are you doing?" There was a new tone in Beckett's voice that brought Jack's head up quickly.

"Untuckin' me shirt, what's it look like?"

Beckett's lip curled. But he said nothing, watching Jack rip a long strip off his shirt. Jack waved the strip back and forth as if to air it out. Then the pirate laid his festering wrist in his lap and stared at it.

Beckett's eyes widened as he realized what Jack was going to do.

Jack held the makeshift bandaging above his wrist as if he were about to drop it. Then like the strings holding him up had been snipped, he slumped. The would-be bandage landed on his leg. He took deep breaths, head bowed.

The top of Jack's head was all black, tangled hair. The red sash circling his forehead barely held back the wild strands, which had been forced into some sort of braid. Beckett shuddered. He knew an entire ecosystem when he saw one...and Jack's head probably rivaled any ecosystem boasted by Earth herself.

"I knew you couldn't do it." The spiteful, school-boy words slipped from Beckett's lips like thorns.

Jack raised his head. His eyes were blazing. "When you are passin' though the gates of Hell an' I'm on me way to Heaven, I'll wait to watch you fall into the boiling lake."

Beckett smiled. "That's funny, Jack, because it's going to be the other way around."

All anger drained from Jack's face and disbelief replaced it. Slowly, he bent from the waist. "I bow to yer cosmic self-deception. You're in spectacular denial."

"I am not," Beckett retorted.

Jack snorted and grinned like a little boy. "That one gets 'em every time."

"What are you talking about?"

"You just denied bein' in denial. Which means you're in denial."

Beckett thought for a moment.

"You know, most people don't have t'think that hard 'bout this sort of thing," Jack said. Then he said slowly, "Saying 'no' is just like saying 'yes.' It's a _trick question_."

"I know," Beckett snapped. His stomach growled.

"Missed din-din, did we?" Jack murmured.

"No."

"Oh, then we missed our warm glass of milk before bed." Jack smirked.

"Warm milk is revolting," Beckett retorted without thinking.

"It is not! How can y'say such a thing?"

"I can because when milk is warm, it reeks of filthy cow-"

"Y'bear a strange resemblance to one."

"-dirt, and manure...like drinking straight from the milking bucket." Beckett shuddered.

"Y'have a point there," Jack nodded. "But I suppose I never noticed. I always take my milk with a slosh of rum mixed in. At least, I used to when I was little. Now I prefer rum _sans_ mammary gland secretions...stuff." He flapped his good hand and then licked his lips, wishing he hadn't mentioned rum because, clams and sand in your undies, did he ever need some.

Beckett's eyes were wide again. "Are you saying your mother gave you rum with your milk when you were little?"

Jack shrugged. "Well, I don't know f'sure. She _did_ used to say I was a good, deep sleeper, even when I was a baby. P'raps she fed me rum t'keep it that way."

Beckett shook his head, morbidly awed.

Jack barked a laugh, eyes glittering in the candlelight. "For a hardened agent of the Trading company, you're awf'ly gullible."

Beckett stiffened. "Oh, play your games, Sparrow. It won't make any difference in the end."

Jack was grinning. "You just turned yer nose up. Who did y'get yer nose from, anyhow? It's all pert an' piggy. I swear I can see half a mile up yer nostrils."

Beckett's face went stony. "I might ask you the same thing."

"Why?" Jack touched his nose and left a dot of flour on it.

"It's like a cat's, all straight and tiny. If you didn't have that scraggle on your chin and upper lip, you'd look like a psychotic debutante."

"Well, I already know _that._"

"That you'd look like a debutante?"

"Aye. How do you think I heard about yer deeply passionate infatuation with Lady Rowe? That was a few months ago in London. I've never enjoyed the company of painted gossips so much in me entire life. Not one of th'chatty biddies suspected me true gender, either."

Beckett grimaced. "There's a place for people like you."

"And it's a lot nicer than the place for people like _you._"

"Shut up."

"That's an incredibly spineless retort," Jack said mildly. "Only used by people what feel they don't have control of a situation."

"Your analysis is miserably untrue."

"But it _is_ true. You, Beckie, don't have control of this situation."

Beckett gazed into Jack's eyes. "And you do?"

Jack's lips twitched. "The fact that you'd ask me makes the answer quite clear, really."

Beckett huffed. "You can barely stand."

"Who needs standing legs in order to be in control? After all, your legs're tiny an'you've got people doing yer nefarious bidding _everywhere_."

Beckett's lips tightened angrily. "I wasn't talking about legs."

"Aye, let's not talk 'bout legs. That could get obscene. Anyway. I'm not afraid to share 'bout me nose. It came from both my parents. Me father's nose was more down-'n-long with a little up-down at th'tip, while me mum's was out-'n-down with no up-down at the tip."

Beckett stared at him.

"What?" Jack asked.

Beckett kept staring.

"_What?_"

Beckett blinked once and then kept staring.

"Mate, yer eyes'll get stuck that way."

Beckett was still staring.

Jack fidgeted. "Do you like lilacs? I like lilacs."

Beckett snapped out of it and scowled. "I hate lilacs."

"Then what flower _do_ you like?"

"Question. Why are we talking about this?"

"'Cause we're locked into a tiny space in th'middle of a huge fortress wif no way out an' no way t'get help; really, we've nothing better to do."

"I beg to differ. Simply breathing would be better than discussing flowers."

"Ah, I see what this is. Y'think that discussing flowers will somehow compromise yer masculinity."

Beckett snorted.

"When really," Jack looked innocently philosophical, "a man truly confident in his masculinity would have no qualms 'bout discussing flowers, indeed, he wouldn't be bothered by discussing lace."

Beckett crossed his arms and shook his head smugly. "No, Jack. You are not going to goad, manipulate, or trick me into telling you which flower I like."

Jack's lip curled. "Yer determination is adorable in its futility."

"And your arrogant mockery is buying you hours upon hours of agony. If you keep at this, you'll be spending days in the torture chamber before I finally let you hang."

Jack folded his hands saucily. "Well, taumatawhakatangihangakoauauotameteaturipukakapikimaungahoronukupokaiwhenuakitanatahu."

Silence.

Beckett wore the oddest expression, something between insane mirth and terror. "Jack," he said with extreme self-control, "I've noticed something."

"No. Really? An' what would this thing be?"

"There's a candle stuck to the bottom of your boot."

Jack contemplated him mockingly. "You're wondering if that big word's real, or if I just made it up."

"I am not."

"You are too."

"I'm not."

"Y'are."

"I don't gave a flying bat's tongue!"

"Y'give that _and_ the bat's claws _and_ its wings."

"I do not."

"You do too."

"I do not!"

"You do too!"

"I'm not doing this!"

"Beckie's in denial again."

"For the last time, shut u-"

"Ha!" Jack's grin froze the words on Beckett's lips. "There's the shut up flag again."

With a snarl, Beckett hopped off the barrel and stalked toward Jack. From the look on his face, all hell was about to break loose.

"I have lice," Jack said congenially, scratching behind his ear.

Beckett stopped cold in his tracks and swelled, fists tight at his sides, breathing hard. For a moment he looked as if he was going to throw himself on Jack, lice or no lice. But then he glanced at the ceiling. Slowly, his rage faded.

Jack, who had pulled his knees tight to his chest in preparation for attack, raised a worried eyebrow.

Beckett's eyes followed the ceiling and trailed over the shelves.

Jack twiddled two fingers under his chin. "Wot is it?" he whispered.

"I can breathe without trouble. It doesn't even smell like smoke any more. "

The pirate frowned and looked around, sniffing juicily. "Doesn't it, then?"

"The air has cleared drastically and very quickly…too quickly for a sealed pantry."

"Too quickly, aye? My elite ability to reason deductively tells me you're tryin' t'get at some profound point what will affect our situation, even our lives, irrerminably and intevocably–er–interminably and irrevocably."

Beckett's right eyelid twitched. Jack allowed himself a grin.

Then their eyes met. Their wary gazes said the same thing, _Blast it, that comradely feeling is back. _

The monster called Teamwork loomed up between them with an evil grin.

**-cackles- Please review!

* * *

**Now you MUST go read TavyBeckettFan's _Castaway: Part 1._ Beckett gets stranded on an island and starts talking to a coconut and it's hysterical!

Starling Rising loves Tamora Pierce's _Immortals_ series (as do I). I highly recommend all three fan fictions she has written, especially _Gone Astray_. Very worth your time!

If you read meowbook's _Overlooked_ fan fiction you will be amused and fascinated by her oneshots dedicated to overlooked POTC characters. Definitely check it out!

Eldonyx's stories are in gorgeous French, which I've been trying to learn. I recommend _Pour l'__éternité,_ a sweet oneshot starring Will after POTC3.


	7. When Beckett Met Rob

**A/N: **Thank you to Jennifer Lynn Weston, Rokhal, TavyBeckettFan, PirateTrixi, Panzergal, Calathiel of Mirkwood, Starling Rising, JaxLass, and Eldonyx for reviews! Every single review thrills me to no end and I'm very grateful. Special thank you to those of you who have faithfully reviewed each chapter. I didn't expect anyone to start doing that and it means a lot to me!

To Panzergal: Your review really made me smile. I am delighted that you continue to enjoy this and your really sweet words about my style really are so confidence-inspiring. Thank you very much!

Disclaimer: I am setting up a camera to record the chaos outside my hiding place. Just now, Hercules grabbed one of Cinderella's shoes and threw it against the wall. Thankfully, Cinderella's shoes are unbreakable. This is making her laugh, and Hercules is getting really red in the face. And I still don't own POTC.

* * *

**Chapter 7**

They tried to fight it. They really did. Jack smirked at Beckett like he was the most laughable person he'd seen in his life. Beckett scowled and tried to think of threats. But all efforts were for naught. Terrible Teamwork was too powerful, and seconds later, they were both resigned and trying to figure out where to start searching.

Beckett lit two more candles from the pile they'd collected. (They asked me not to tell you about the candle pile because this monument to Teamwork mortally mortifies them. Unfortunately, they had no money with which to bribe me).

Of all the surfaces, the floor was the grossest. This was duly noted. And by mere eye contact, they decided to start with the walls. They didn't even need to talk! This turned their faces more sour than five lemons.

"The back?" Beckett gritted.

Jack could only grunt and flap his good hand. They shuffled to the back of the pantry. Two large barrels kept them from coming right up to the wall, so they stood side by side, staring.

Jack eased away from Beckett, casually resting his shoulder on the left wall. He saw that Beckett had done the same thing, leaning on the shelves across the way.

Searing glances of loathing were exchanged.

Stones neatly mortared together, gray, rectangular, and bored. That was what Jack and Beckett saw when they examined the back wall of the pantry from three feet away.

Touching and pushing and knocking on the wall changed nothing. Leaning over one of the barrels, which came up to his waist, Jack glanced down into the mysterious shadows behind it. He threw an arm around the barrel, and heaved. It barely rocked. "What the dickens is in there?" He pried the lid off and saw a massive bag of flour that had been ripped open. "Delighted t'make yer acquaintance," he muttered, replaced the lid, and then looked up to see what blistering statement Beckett would make.

The agent was peering into the corner of the pantry. Slowly, he pulled himself up onto the second barrel and peered more closely.

Only the right wall had shelves. These shelves ended five inches from the back wall, leaving a blank little space to be adored by spiders and shadows. Into this space Beckett extended a potato, wiping thick webs away. Jack joined him, careful not to lean against the agent's legs, which were whiter than his stockings had been.

The space had been a solid mass of fibers. But now many of the webs were ruined. As Jack watched, the webs swayed in a breeze, and not because Beckett was breathing on them. In fact, the agent was holding his breath.

Jack wished he wasn't close enough to know that.

Past the film of web, Jack saw ragged stone edges. There was a black hole. It looked big enough for a mouse. Jack's heart sank.

"Carrot," Beckett said.

Jack scrambled to fetch one. Beckett cleared the hole out with the carrot, jumping when a large wolf spider scrambled down the wall. Jack huffed in a amusement.

"Well." Beckett set the carrot in as far as it could go, defeated. "There's where the smoke went...through a hole a mere six inches in diameter. Blast, the air coming out of there reeks."

Beckett was disappointed. Jack wished he wasn't disappointed, too. He felt that he should should commiserate with Beckett–a fate worse than death. He brightened. "P'raps it opens into a corridor. We should try yelling."

Beckett turned frigidly toward the pirate who stood before him. The agent had to repress the urge to kick the pirate. "By 'we' I suppose you mean the '_Royal_ We.'"

"Wot?"

"When royalty says, _We'll take care of it_, what they really mean is, _Everyone else except us will take care of it, because we're royal_. So when you say '_we shoud try yelling_' you really mean '_you should try yelling_.'"

"There _is_ somethin' in that noggin of yours!" Jack said as brightly as he could. His head was starting to burn. "Congrat'lations."

Beckett shook his head with lofty disgust, leaned toward the hole and shouted, "Hello out there!"

Beckett's compliance made Jack grin from ear to ear. _We're makin' progress._

An ear-splitting scream shot from the hole like a spear. Beckett recoiled so fast he tumbled onto the other barrel. Jack blinked and realized he was pressing himself against the far wall, adrenaline singing through his body in dizzying waves.

Both men stared at each other with huge eyes as there came the faint sound of distressed gibbering. The voice was male. Then another scream made their eardrums crackle and the hair on their necks stand straight up. More gibbering.

They remained still, anticipating the next scream with dread.

The sobbed nonsense slowly faded, and then perfect silence settled. Jack poked at his ear, which was ringing so loudly it made his head ache. A terrible thirst had slowly grown in his mouth since he'd been branded, along with the pain in his wrist. Soon his mind would be devoured by his body's cry for mercy, and needling Beckett wouldn't be enough distraction.

"Are we next to the torture chambers?" Jack asked.

Beckett mutely shook his head.

They waited.

"There must be a cell beside us," Beckett finally said.

"Wif a banshee inside."

Beckett didn't agree or disagree. He took a deep, steadying breath. There were rings under his bloodshot eyes and his lips were chapped. "We need to discover whether he can talk, or if he just screams. If he can talk, there's a chance he can alert the guards."

"They'll find us," Jack said. "Really, truly, unchangeably find us."

"Yes," Beckett answered.

For Beckett, being found meant everything good. For Jack, it was another matter. Beckett saw Jack's face go quiet and flat, and knew that the pirate was considering his options. Jack probably did not want to be found. Or worse, Jack might want to be found, but he would want Beckett dead before the searchers arrived. Jack was wounded and weakening, but he was cunning and if push came to shove, Beckett wasn't sure of victory.

Jack blinked. "Let's see what the banshee can do."

Beckett repressed a sigh of relief and edged back over to the hole. He took a deep breath and glanced back at Jack, who was watching with a strained expression. Then he turned back and said softly into the opening, "Who are you?"

Both men scrunched their heads down, ready for the inevitable scream.

There was a squeak and loud shuffling noise, like someone was scrambling away. "We won't hurt you," Beckett said. "We need your help."

Whimpering started, and then it escalated into a wail, which escalated into another mind-shattering scream that lasted for at least five seconds. Beckett jumped off the barrel and joined Jack against the wall.

The scream stopped, and then the screamer took a deep breath. Beckett cringed, but Jack lurched to the hole, half-pulling himself onto the barrel. "Shut up, y'lummox! Or no dinner fer you!"

There was a sputter. "I be a good boy, Mum, I swear..." The response, thick with a Welsh accent, was like the rasp of holystone over planking.

Jack grinned over his shoulder at Beckett, who looked ready to either burst out laughing or slam his head against the wall.

"'Course you're a good boy," Jack crooned into the opening. "What's yer name?"

"I'm the froth on th'waves wot gets stranded on the sand. I'm th'oyster wit'out no pearl, the shell what gets smashed under the treasure hunter's heel."

Jack opened his mouth. Then he closed it.

"Sonny knows big words," Beckett murmured.

"Yer sense of melancholy sunders me mother's heart," Jack said earnestly into the stinking darkness. "Now what's yer name?"

"Already told ye!" There was a hysteric edge to the response.

"Aye that's right, y'did," Jack said hastily. "I'll just call you Insane Rob fer short. Who put you in this terrible place?"

"Men wit' snowy faces. I seen no one fer years. When dandelions lose their fluff, graves lose souls."

"A fountain of macabre despair, ain't ya? Mum's so proud."

"This won't get us anywhere." Beckett's warm breath filled Jack's ear and the pirate leaned away so fast he cracked his head on the back wall. Beckett shifted so he wasn't touching Jack's legs. "We had better chances when he was screaming."

Before Jack could muster a proper glare, ominous whimpering began next door. "See what you did!" Jack hissed at Beckett.

"Indeed, I see quite well." Beckett smirked as the whimpering became sobs.

Jack elbowed Beckett in the chest to make him back off, then put his face up to the hole again. "Mummy's here!"

Honest-to-goodness wails were the response.

"No dinner!" Jack tried, but it was in vain. Jack's own vocal chords shivered as Rob's wail climbed and thinned into a razor scream. Swallowing desperately, Jack slid off the barrel and stood helplessly with Beckett as Rob paused for breath and went at it again.

"This is good. They'll find us in no time," Beckett said complacently, voice raised over the racket.

Suddenly a pile of filthy straw shot from the hole and fell onto the barrel. Insane Rob's breathing was so close, it filled the entire pantry, and when he screamed again, the stones themselves seemed to quiver. More straw and now stones fell out of the hole, and then Jack realized what was happening.

"Rob's filling the hole!"

"Let him. We can open it up again."

The two men waited as the frantic soul closed up the hole, Beckett's expression weary but smug, Jack's pained and sad. Rob continued to scream when he had the breath for it. Once the hole was stuffed, he retreated and the racket abated somewhat.

"You British call yerselves civilized," Jack snapped, "but every barbaric act I've seen's been at British hands."

Beckett smiled at him. "We employ anything we must. And for barbarians such as that, there's only one language they can understand, and it's...barbaric."

"Then you're nothin' but a shapechanging monster what'll have the entire world at its throat. The British empire's waxing, but it'll wane by its own hand."

"Oh, don't say things like that, Jack! Words like that take men to gallows. And it makes you seem so disillusioned with us."

"I am." All humor had left Jack's face, leaving it gray and old. "Oh, I am."

Beckett stepped lightly up to the hole and listened. He smiled excitedly, but there was a manic gleam in his eyes. "Someone's pounding on the door to Rob's cell and telling him to be quiet!" He pawed the stone and straw stuffing out of the hole as Jack sauntered unsteadily up.

As soon as the hole was cleared, Rob's screaming started again, drowning out the dull thuds of guards' fists on his cell door. Jack sighed. He didn't see Beckett's eyes widening savagely, or his breath coming faster as something snapped in his soul.

Suddenly Beckett threw himself at the hole, one hand slamming into the edge. Jack lurched back. Beckett pressed his face close to the opening. "Keep screaming, you slimy b-----yes," he shouted, "yell until your throat is raw until it shatters just like that cursed seashell you claim to be!"

Slowly, Jack backed away as Beckett continued to rant, his cruel words mingling with Rob's cries and sending them higher and higher. Beckett's scraped, grimy hands were in fists, his entire form coiled and ferocious and out of control.

Jack watched, eyes squinted against the bedlam. He'd never seen Beckett so violent, so _red. _He had no doubt that trying to intervene would trigger a terrible attack. He leaned back against the pantry door, feeling the world softening around him. His ears were crackling, smarting. His head was beginning to ring like a huge bell, every noise reverberating, like fists smashing into his burning skull.

The world softened further, and Jack kept his eyes fixed on a fuzzy Beckett. Oddly, he saw Beckett as a boy, cowering on the floor, being yelled at by a huge father with...three eyes?

"S'always the parents what have t'be blamed for the evils of their offspr..." the words in Jack's mouth shriveled in a Sahara wind.

He wondered what he had just said. He wondered why the atrocious dryness in his mouth seemed to be spreading throughout his entire being. He felt his body yawn wide and wanted to jump into a pool of silky water so badly, he shattered.

Hello, fever.

Jack lowered himself to the floor, good arm shaking under his weight. It felt good to rest his head, but the relief he had hoped for wasn't there. The heat, the pain, the ache, in his body only grew.

"You're just a pathetic bit of cow dung!" Beckett was still going strong. "For some reason you think you're entitled to good treatment and humaneness when in fact you've broken the law and you deserve every bit of misery you suffer! You're no more than a worm who crawled out of the gutter and who's been put back where he belongs!"

Insane Rob kept screaming, louder if it was possible. Jack plugged one ear and wished he could plug the other.

"You and all the cesspool trash like you," Beckett snarled, "whining and groveling and getting hurt when you're punished for crimes you've committed, filling the streets with misery and filth, better that you're locked away from the sun so no one can see you. Better you're all simple and stupid so you can be manipulated and swept aside by those who know there is no right, no wrong, no code, no morals, _only good business_!"

Rob screamed, but Beckett screamed louder, "_I hate you!_"

Jack took a deep breath and bellowed, "Be quiet, y'wench-hearted priss!"

Beckett's mouth snapped close and he turned toward Jack with a murderous expression. "What did you just call me?"

The screams trailed off into gasping, rasping breathing.

Jack shrugged one shoulder, glad for the door at his back. "I'd call that exhibition there a towering rage, but it just doesn't seem right, seein' as you're shorter'n most women."

Beckett's head snapped back like he'd been slapped.

This would either humiliate Beckett into his former iciness, or put Jack into a worse world of hurt than he was already in. "You officially lost control," Jack said slowly. "Like yer father, aye?"

Beckett's face had been murderous before. Now, all color drained from his cheeks. Even the candle light could not warm his pallor. Suddenly Jack was gazing at a cherub who had fallen out of Heaven to Hell...and then, impossibly, out of Hell and into a place where all was ice. A world where every surface sharp enough to cut...a slit on Beckett's cheek glared red. His lips were a second gash across his face. He sat on the barrel like a sculpture, stockings hanging about his ankles, hands descending slowly, ominously, into his lap.

"Your try at deciphering my tragic past was clumsily done, Jack." Beckett paused. His calm voice was worse than his yell. "You'll regret it."

Jack nodded.

Then he stiffened and made a choking noise, branded arm spasming. He slammed himself against the door, sobbing for breath as waves of agony surged up his arm.

Beckett's gash of a mouth curled slightly. No noise issued from the hole. Insane Rob had gone silent and the guards had gone. Black despair, like a snake, curled around Beckett's throat as he slid off his barrel and slowly approached Jack.

**Ye gads! What is a-happening! Ye nice peoples, review if you please! Tell me if something doesn't make sense!**

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Head over to Calathiel of Mirkwood's profile and read _Innocence of a Child_. She has a gift for writing Jack, especially his reactions to young children. Actually, I'm constantly trying to write Jack like she does! 

Have you checked out Rokhal's _Captain Turner and the Organ_ lately? Rokhal has an incredible imagination and the world of the _Dutchman_ becomes a wild, wonderful thing in her capable hands. Read it!

You ever wondered what the heck Jack did after he bobbed away from Tortuga at the finish of AWE? If you have, you must read JaxLass's _Which Way Lies True._ This is an excellent story by a witty writer!


	8. Cobwebs and Snowflakes

**A/N:** Sorry that this update was so slow in coming. I hope it's good enough to make up for the wait!

Thank you to Something Not So Normal, Jennifer Lynn Weston, Tavy Beckett Fan, Starling Rising, Pirate Trixi, Panzergal, Eldonyx, and JaxLass for their reviews!

To Panzergal: You make me smile every time you review. I'm sorry for leaving you hanging and I hope your exams went well!

Disclaimer: Princess Auriel _plus_ Cruella de Ville _equals_: gadgets, gizmos, whosits, and whatsits creating general carnage. And lots of flying fur. POTC is not mine.

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**Chapter 8**

A solemn choir in red robes with orange polka dots prepared to sing Jack Sparrow's Requiem Mass as Beckett slowly crouched down beside him.

The pirate was scrunched back against the door. His dark eyelids were shut tight, his lower lip captured between his teeth. His shoulders were tense, his entire body was heaving with his effort to breathe through his pain. Feverish color laced his filthy cheekbones and his good hand quivered as it squeezed the bicep of his bad hand. When Beckett came near, he gave a muted groan, wrenched his head around, and opened his eyes.

Beckett's face was like a fell moon floating in a suffocating sky. The agent leaned to the left and when he straightened, he brought a candle near Jack's face with a mechanical deliberateness. A orange star, it was bright enough to make Jack flinch.

Beckett took in Jack's pupils, which were dilated to cover almost all his irises, rimmed by the thinnest brown.

"You'll never guess what I'm feeling right now," Beckett said softly, "so I'll tell you." A drip of wax trembled at the top of the candle, then fell toward Jack's face. Beckett's hand shot out. He hissed as the drip landed on his palm.

"At first I felt despair," Beckett said to Jack's glazed eyes, "because the guards are used to Rob's racket and they don't care. They won't come. Before that, I felt anger. I don't know how you do it, how you constantly spew things that enrage me." He grimaced, and then sat alongside Jack. He stared straight ahead, at a shadowed shelf.

"It's you have t'thank fer all m'inspiration."

Beckett turned at Jack's weak retort. He bared his teeth in a terrible parody of a smile. "But do you know what I feel now?" He paused to lean his face closer to Jack's. "I feel protective."

Jack's eyes shifted toward the door, vaguely puzzled.

"I know, imagine that." Beckett's voice was eerily amused. "Oh." He caught another drip of wax before it could land on Jack, eyes crinkling at the pain. He stood stiffly and secured the candle next to a stack of bowls. Then he turned back to Jack.

He said, "Can I make you more comfortable?"

The earth shook on its foundations. The Andromeda Galaxy reformed itself into a big shocked face. And Jack slowly rotated his head so he could see Beckett.

"We can't have you falling apart, Jack," Beckett said, half coy, half disgusted. "Not yet." He snatched up a limp potato sack, crumpled it up, then knelt at Jack's head. He grabbed Jack's hair savagely, pulled the pirate's head up, and shoved the bundle underneath. Then he released Jack like he had touched fire, revulsion and confusion glimmering beneath the alien determination that had turned his cruel actions to nurturing ones.

The sack helped Jack's neck a lot, but Jack felt the rest of himself plummet into a pit of dread. He wished Beckett had exploded and kicked and punched and yelled and cried. Instead there was this iron control, this ominous sweetness. Outright cruelty Jack could handle. But this new manifestation of Beckett's arctic soul was far worse because Jack knew Beckett had focused every venomous drop of hatred, anger, and despair into a dream of torturing the pirate he blamed for everything. And if Jack was weak in the torture chamber, he wouldn't last long enough for Beckett's rage to be sated.

Jack began to think about pulling that horrible sack out from under his head and throwing it away. He wondered why he didn't just do it, but his mind and body had become so sluggish...

Like an evil nursemaid, Beckett ripped a clean piece of lace off his sleeve, then picked up the strip of Jack's shirt that lay tangled on the floor. Then he knelt before Jack's branded wrist, which had been flung outward as if the pirate wished it would fall off already. Beckett inspected the wrist without touching it, gagging when he got a whiff of its rotting smell. It was entirely ghastly. Part of Beckett was scrambling away. The other part just smiled.

Slowly, Jack turned his head toward Beckett, cracked lips parting in question. "You don't want to know," Beckett said, and then he did the most addled thing he'd ever done in his life.

He seized Jack's bad hand in an unforgiving grip, twisting it so the brand faced the ceiling. Then he brought the lace, folded into a pad of sorts, down onto the pirate's weeping flesh.

It was like lightning had struck Jack. He gave a high wail and his entire body convulsed, knees coming up to chest, free hand shooting toward Beckett as he rolled in an attempt to protect his wrist. Instinctively, Beckett sat back and his left foot slammed into Jack's chest to keep him back.

But Jack was unconscious before Beckett's painted heel hit his sternum. Breathing hard, Beckett pulled his foot back and examined his enemy. The pirate laid motionless, free hand uselessly splayed over the floor, wetness trailing from beneath his thick eyelashes.

Beckett looked at his own white hand, grasping Jack's heavily tanned, grimy one. His own hands started to quake but he gritted out a curse and pried Jack's fingers off before he could become to unnerved. He tied the pad of lace down with the strip of fabric, careful not to tie it too tightly. Then he adjusted the potato sack so it was under Jack's head and scrambled to his safe perch on the barrels.

"Consider that your first punishment," he whispered, wiping his hands repeatedly to rid them of the pirate's grime. Trying to breathe deeply, he licked his lips. "Why is there no water in this bloody rat warren?"

He pulled out his watch fob, and for a moment he gazed hungrily at its pristine gold curves. Then he flipped open the lid.

"Midnight," he murmured, then listened to the watch's endless ticking. It seemed to be the only noise in the universe. The entire sleeping fortress pressed down on him like the world-

"Midnight, aye?" Rob's sandy voice made Beckett jump. The agent snapped his watch closed and tucked it away, warily staring at the blank opening in the wall.

"Y'be a fancy gennleman," Rob said suddenly.

"And whatever makes you think that?" Beckett asked flatly.

"Saw that pretty shine y'ave."

"Why aren't you screaming at me?"

"I don't scream after midnight. Made it a rule, I 'ave."

"Well isn't that grand." Beckett's voice was light yet prickly. "Eat an insect out of your own hair as a reward."

Rob snorted. "Me mum'd switch the back o' yer legs for backtalk."

"As it happens, I am in the position to get _your_ legs switched for simply breathing."

"Oh aye, that be readily apparent."

Beckett ground his teeth. He snatched up the cobweb-coated carrot and shoved it through the hole. "Eat. Do anything but talk."

"Oi, this be first rate, thank ye, kind master." A crack made Beckett jump, and then there was only the noise of Rob chewing industriously.

Beckett thought of the cobwebs on the carrot and turned green. Mechanically, he picked up the potato he had used to clear away the first of the webs and shoved it into the hole. It stuck. He pounded it in further with his fist, listening to Rob's faint protests.

Inside, Beckett had become a snowfield. Flat, expressionless, and ruthless. He settled himself more comfortably so he could watch his nemesis, and then daydreamed of water and pain.

* * *

"Jack, Jack. Ye can't stay outta trouble, can ye?" The musical yet pettish female voice brought Jack out of a rocky sleep, and into a world dripping with quirky _deja vu._

He was lying on the ground, but on something very soft, too. At his side crouched a wondrous creature. For what woman was not wondrous?

This woman wore a high-necked gown of deep purple velvet. She had milky arms and her hair was loose black ringlets that cascaded and crescendoed and generally made him want to bury his face in them. Her face was pretty in a cherubic way, yet her lips were as red as any lovely lady's, and her eyelids just as heavy with paint.

Jack eyed the extremely prude neckline of her dress, then her lush lips. They didn't make sense. Was she trying to be seductive or nun-ish? Why did women leave him wondering all the time?

At least he knew her name: Violet. _Wait_. How did he know _that_?

"Captain, y'look a fright." She cupped his face, and wiped beneath his eyes with her thumbs. Her touch was warm and smooth.

Jack felt he had to say something, even though he just wanted to sigh and close his eyes. "Rough day."

"Mmm…" she said soothingly.

Jack looked past her hair. Plain white canvas formed a peak above his head. He was in a tent.

A _tent?_

Violet stood and shook out her long skirt. "I'll get you some water."

Thirst roared through him. "Aye, water." He barely survived the seconds it took Violet to turn around with a brimming mug. She knelt, and he lifted his head, almost taking the cup from her in his rush.

He drank. And drank.

After the water was gone, he felt less thirsty. At least he _thought_ he did. His mouth was beginning to signal its doubts.

"Wot kind'f water _is_ that?" Jack demanded, handing her the cup.

"Reusable," she said, shoving the cup into the side of the tent. It stuck there.

Jack watched her straighten her sleeves, waiting for her to smile and say she was pulling his leg.

She didn't.

Jack felt a huge curse swelling on his tongue. He sat up.

Violet clucked, supporting his back. "Careful, careful!"

Jack flapped his hands at her. "Don't touch me!" Yes, this had to be a dream. He'd never tell any woman to stop touching him when he was conscious. "Where's the way outta this place?"

Violet, who had drawn back with a wounded air, gave him a dark look. "When dandelions loose their fluff, graves lose souls."

"Leave Rob out of this!"

"Who's Rob?"

"None of your bell-toll."

_What?_

"Of course, I know it's none of my bee sting," she sniffed.

What _was_ the expression they were trying to capture? The word wasn't _bell toll _or _bee sting, _it was...if only she hadn't confused him! "I know that _you_ know that it's none of your blather-bop."

She raised one elegant eyebrow. "Well I know that you know that _I_ know that it's none of my brother-whisk."

Jack folded his arms. Hooeeee and huzzah, his wrist didn't hurt. "Well I know that you know that you know that I know that _you_ know that it's none of your bitty-boo. _Blast it!_"

She came close, challenging. She smelled like lilacs. Shouldn't she smell like violets? "Well, _Captain_, I know that you know that I know that you know that I know that you know that _I_ know that it's none of my birdy bye-bye."

Jack shoved his face at hers, angry when she didn't even flinch. "I know that you know that I know that you know that I know that you know that I know that you know that it's none of your babble-burtle!"

"I know that you know that I know that you-"

"Would you just _stop that_?" Jack growled. Their faces were inches away and her eyes were beautiful, green-blue one minute and gray-blue the next.

Violet smiled. "Aye, for a kiss."

"More like a shove into the mud," Jack responded sullenly. But she did have respectable lips. Maybe kissing her would cure his thirst. She slid a cool arm around his neck and there was no turning back-

WHAM.

Jack and Violet jumped apart. The tent shook. Little bits of paper fell down from the tent. They turned into baby turtles that burrowed into the ground while singing _Ring Around the Rosy_. Jack was just grateful that none had landed on his head.

WHAMWHAM. WHAM. The ground itself shook and Jack felt his eardrums quaking painfully. Did ethereal beings not want them to kiss? What was going on?

He and Violet crawled to the front of the tent and peeked out between the flaps. Jack's jaw dropped.

A clear, glittering slab of ice lay flat in the grass ten feet away. Its edges were curvy and at least three feet thick. The entire thing was perhaps ten feet wide. Others lay nearby, and more were falling out of a blue sky, whistling as they came.

Snowflakes. Snowflakes oh...about the size of small carriages.

WHAM. One snowflake landed on another and snapped into two razor-sharp pieces that tumbled away, shredding the grass.

At that moment, Jack was blessed with a very clear mental image depicting one such monster snowflake landing on the tent. Landing on Violet. Landing on...aye, Jack Sparrow. 'Imminent peril' had never sounded so poignant.

"Squashed," he muttered, then spotted a forest a hundred yards off. A big forest, very nice. Strong trees, probably strong enough to keep away those cute little flurries.

WHAM. WHAM-WHAM-WHAM.

"Out of the way!" Jack elbowed Violet aside and exploded from the tent, headed in an all-out sprint for the forest. Arms windmilling, feet kicking, he ignored Violet, who gave a wail and charged after him, tripping on her skirt.

An instant later, shade engulfed him and he clutched the nearest tree, trying to catch his breath. Safe.

Oh, what about what'shername? He turned...just in time to see Violet get utterly smashed by a star-shaped snowflake – WHAM.

He cringed. "Bugger." Then he shrugged. Oh well, she hadn't seemed that scintillating, anyway. He turned with the intention of exploring the forest and leaped back with a shout. "Where- how did you-?"

"Help me, Jack!" Violet cried.

Jack leaned backwards, twiddling his fingers above his waist. "Where did you all come from?"

Ten men in rough green and brown tunics and leggings stood arrayed before him in a half-circle. Some had bows and arrows ready to fly, others had swords. The largest of them, a fey-faced man with furry ears, held Violet captive, a dagger to her throat.

The man snarled, "A place mysterious to some, that's from where we come!"

Jack frowned, barely breathing. "Who're you?"

"A clutch of men, who ken...um. We're not one, like you, but five times two!"

Jack's mouth was open like he was going to speak, but nothing came out.

The man seemed to remember something. "Your money or your life, or I will cause...strife for your wife!"

"She's not my wife!" Jack protested.

"Jack!" Violet cried. Tears filled her eyes.

"Bugger," Jack muttered, and then straightened. "Fine. Since it's money you want, I regret I have none to flaunt."

The men gave an appreciative murmur.

"And while we're in this questioning flurry, might I inquire why your ears are furry?" Jack added grandly. My, wasn't he clever!

Violet's handsome captor scowled and his short blond hair bristled. "You've no money, aye? Well then instead I want your...eye."

His men looked disturbed. "His eye?" One with red hair asked. "Why?"

"Your daring to question...will cause you universal, um, recession," the leader snapped.

Jack grinned despite himself. "That was putridly, horrifically, an' most thorough-fully awful."

"Eh?" the leader growled, and tightened his grip on Violet. She squeaked as the blade bit into her neck.

Jack sighed. "Would y'just let her go? I've nothing an' yer wasting all our time."

"Questions will be asked by me, else you'll be pinned to a tree, you and your every flea!"

Jack lifted his arms. "Pinned by what? One 'a those flimsy arrows? An' while we're talking about fleas, she has 'em, too."

With a gasp, the leader threw Violet away from himself. "Contamination!" he cried wildly. "Oh, damnation! There's no cure but...conflagration!" He yipped like a dog and ran off into the trees on all fours. His men shrugged and wandered off after him, their weapons dragging on the ground.

Violet was in hysterics, huddled on the pine needle-coated ground in a quivering heap. Jack gazed at her with weary disgust. He hated it when women did this. Why couldn't they just...not do it?

He shuffled to her, mechanically bent over, and tapped her head. She looked up with a gasp.

Well she certainly knew how to cry well. Her eyes weren't too puffy and her nose was just a little red. Her lips were rather swollen, though, and the bandit's knife had cut the collar of her matronly dress. Now Jack could see an exhilarating bit of white collarbone.

Huzzah.

He knew she wanted him to kneel down and take her in his manly arms and promise he would keep all terrible things away from her forever and ever. But seeing as she'd somehow survived being smashed by a massive chunk of ice, he didn't really want to touch her at all.

He straightened.

She threw herself back down, shaking with fresh sobs.

Jack huffed and rolled his eyes. "Come here. Stand up." He took her arm, careful to only touch her long sleeve. She let him pull her up, hope in her eyes. She reached for him and he scuttled back and hit a tree trunk.

"Oh, no, Jack's got somethin' better." He moved behind her, taking both her arms. He pushed her up against the tree, wrapping her arms around it. Then he jumped back.

She sniffled, but she didn't let go of her new arboreal friend. With a sigh of relief, Jack whirled drunkenly and ran off, muttering dementedly, "Must get back, must get back..."

**Please review!**

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"Sarcastic teen Arcadia Hawthorn gets flung into Tortuga via a magic 'box'. Now she's a pirate and she has to survive the insanity of DMC to find 'what her heart truly desires...' Sound interesting? It is! Check out Something Not Normal's _All That's Bitter is Gold_.


	9. Under Cutler's Skin

Thank you Something Not So Normal, Jennifer Lynn Weston, Eldonyx (_merci!_) and Starling Rising for your reviews. On the wild roller coaster that is writing this story, your support truly came just at the right moment.

Disclaimer: I was watching Snow White pull Aladdin's hair when Captain Li Shang started making his way toward the bookshelf that covers the door to my hiding place. I certainly like Li Shang but he has this huge stick thing and he looks really angry. Not owning POTC is more dangerous than I thought...

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**Chapter 9**

"Mus' get back, mus' get back, mus' get back…"

Who was that? Beckett opened his eyes. Good gracious, he had been dozing, head tilted back against the wall, mouth gaping wide.

It's good thing he doesn't know that we in the peanut gallery were snickering at him.

Eyes shut, Jack was still whispering to himself. His face was shiny with sweat and his brow was wrinkled in distress. Beckett gave him a murderous glare. Then he glanced at the candle nearest just in time to see it gutter out in a pool of wax. Actually, all the candles had died except for the one near Jack's head. Beckett was too lightheaded to light more candles (no pun intended!). Instead, he pulled out his pocket watch and flipped it open, dreading to look at its white face.

Three thirty-seven. Could be worse. Could be hell of a lot better. He cursed and shoved the watch back in its pocket.

Like an old man, he scooted off the barrel and landed on his feet with a grunt. He bent in half, massaging his legs. They felt bloody awful, as did his back, his shoulders, his neck…and the need to use the "necessary" as some called it was growing stronger. Indignant rage swelled, but he could do nothing about it.

Jack fidgeted against the door, and then tried to suck his thumb. The thumb missed his mouth and poked his right eyelid. He suddenly sat up. "Give me back my fruit!" he yelled, eyes wide. "Rum," he said to air before his nose. "More rum. Issa rummy world!"

Beckett stared. Jack slowly turned and saw him. "What're you doin' here?"

"Well, Jack," Beckett bit out the words, "I'm fasting and meditating because I want to be a monk. I am also daydreaming of your hanging. I could do so for hours."

"Don't hang yer onions unnerneath tables," Jack reprimanded, "yer guests'll get smelly knees. Hang 'em from the ceiling, mate."

"The onion I'm thinking about is going to hang from a gallows."

"Waste of a gallows if y'ask me," Jack said. Then he gave a chortle. "It'll look funny too, an onion hangin' from a gallows."

"You aren't thinking straight," Beckett said dismissively. "If you want to keep talking to something, talk to the door. It'll listen better."

Jack frowned at the wooden door. "'ello, door."

Beckett stared.

Jack turned. "It doesn't talk back. That's highly distressing fer a conversationalist such's meself."

Beckett slowly let out a deep breath, crossing his arms.

Jack's overly bright eyes flicked to his wrist where the makeshift bandage glared against his tanned skin. Then he looked up with an odd expression, remembering. He tilted his head back calculatingly. "Nurse Beckie's handiwork, aye?"

"You'll probably lose the hand anyway," was Beckett's acid reply.

Jack didn't answer, but his eyes began to narrow.

At this moment we take an intermission to present Jack's revised Mother of All Lists to our most gracious audience members. He has worked very hard on it – blood, sweat, and tears, people.

**Note**: Since Jack simply added onto his first list, we shall start with item #19.

_Why Captain Jack Sparrow is Allowed to Hold a Grudge Against the World_

_NEW AND IMPROVED!_

19. Beckett blames Jack and throws vegetables

20. Jack may never get out of pantry

21. Jack may never drink another drop of rum

22. Jack's body purchases a Level Five Fever (the worst) from Health Complications Inc., completely disregarding the fact that Jack needs his faculties to combat the insidious Beckett. Jack never should've given his body that monthly allowance. Give your body freedom with the finances and a fever is the thanks you get!

23. Jack may never drink another drop of rum (shockingly, he would settle for water at the moment. This is most grievous!)

24. Fate sniggers and tortures Jack by revealing a hole in the wall, which only allows more insanity to enter the pantry via Insane Rob. By the Dolphin's Chortle, if Fate were a girl, he'd pull her curls. He'd also give her nice knuckle to the eye, cut her ears off, push her off a cliff, pour acid on her...wait. This would be easier if Fate were a male. Drat. Oh well, gender is an insignificant detail. He'd tar and feather her anyway and then set spiders free in her hair and then drop her onto a fire ant hill...(we're afraid this entry goes for a few paragraphs. To spare those with weaker stomachs, we shan't include the whole thing)

25. Jack may never drink another drop of rum or water, even scummy water with lint in it.

26. Jack's fever drives him to drive Beckett to the point of explosion. Beckett goes all creepy and decides to bandage Jack's wrist. There is only one thing to say about this, which Jack has neatly outlined for us in #27...

27. #&!

28. Next, Jack's brain buys the weirdest dream it can find from Brain Whisks Co. _Giany snowflakes_. _Dreadful rhymes._ _Weepy Violet._ _HORROR_

29. Jack may never drink another drop of rum. Or grape juice. Coconut juice...Jack is not going to cry. He is a big boy.

30. Jack awakes to a splitting headache, vicious thirst, complaining bladder, and throbbing wrist. And there's Beckett, stockings around his ankles, wig sproinging in random directions, mouth still spitting thorns

31. Jack may never consume a drop of earthly matter in its liquid form

32. That Jack should be lowered to such a state is horrendously horrible and conducive to homicidal behavior

33. Not that this is bad. There's just the teensy detail of his Level Five Fever, which is the highest on the Gerilda Fever Scale. Thanks to his fever, Jack will be lucky to stand up. (This scale was invented by one Lady Gerilda and is highly acclaimed in doctor's circles.) (Warning: These are 'special' doctors. Don't let any of them treat you.)

34. Jack is forced to resort to lumicide in place of homicide. For the moment, at least...

You may be wondering, What is lumicide?

Just watch.

Supporting himself with one arm, Jack leaned back. He brought his lips six inches away from the final quivering candle and drew a deep breath.

Beckett tried to stop him, but both his feet were asleep. Jack's breath slammed into the flame and killed it. Jack had just committed lumicide, that hardened criminal!

On the floor, Beckett leaned back against the barrels in a haze of rage and tearful frustration. "You did not just do that."

Utter darkness reigned once more. Jack grinned, but winced because of his cracked lips. "I do, does, an' did." He lay down and stared at the wild colors twisting above his head.

Beckett tried to think of torturing Jack, but daydreaming wasn't enough for the rage roaring up from his gut. His hands curled into fists. "Sparrow you stupid lout, you-"

"Bugger that!" Jack's voice snapped out of the darkness.

"Do you even _know_ what that word means, cretin?"

"Aye."

"Your tongue should be cut out!"

"Rose petals 'n diamonds don't 'xactly pour from yer own mouth," Jack drawled. "Y',know, you never told me what yer favorite flower was..."

"I'll remember to have Mercer cut your tongue out," Beckett continued.

"Fine by me..." Jack's voice was now infinitely weary. "It suits you, y'stringy little doll-haired lacy-livered button-nosed, bug-eating, doorknob-licking..." His voice trailed off.

Beckett ground his teeth.

"Oh, look, parrots wif gold toenails..." Jack murmured faintly, and Beckett knew the fever had overtaken him again.

Then, the worst thing happened.

An itch began behind Beckett's left ear. He scratched it, but another itch spoke up from his back. Suddenly, another on his neck, one more on the top of his head, and yet another on his chest. In one terrible flash, he realized what was to blame.

Lice. Fleas.

Cutler Beckett, neatest agent of the East India Trading Company and proud of it, was infested with bugs, the companions of lesser beings. His skin crawled as he thought of his wig, his shirt, his pants, swarming with little-

He tore his coat off. He tore his wig off. He began to pull at his waistcoat, and then realized that he could do nothing. He was completely helpless.

This was beyond the pale. He had sworn he would never be helpless again that gray day when his mother, that horrible woman, had-

His coat was in his hands. He ripped it in half with a strangled shout and then tore into his wig, fingers brutally wrenching the fine hairs off like he was skinning an animal. He couldn't stop himself. He pounded the floor with his fists until they screamed at him to stop. He lay on the floor, legs propped up on a crate of vegetables, gasping floury breaths. He tried to forget the image of his mother, a low-born woman with the filth of the streets on her showing him her scummy home, showing him that he was no better than his father said-

Hatred swarmed inside his skin like an ever-multiplying host of bugs. He tingled with it, pulsed with it. _Two and a half hours. Only two and a half hours before I usher Jack Sparrow into true hell._

He took off his coat used it as a pillow, getting as comfortable as he could on the floor. He would sleep. The next thing he would hear would be rescuers.

Yes, he could wait.

**Majorly crazy action looms in the near future...hooray for reviewers!**

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	10. Open Sesame!

**A/N: **HOORAY! I know it's been a little tough being stuck in the pantry with Jack and Beckett all this time...but you've experienced a bit of what they felt! Now we're finally out! Breathe the fresh air! Stretch! And let the true insanity begin!

Thank you to Jennifer Lynn Weston, Starling Rising, Panzergal, JaxLass, LostWitch5, TavyBeckettFan, Eldonyx, and kweenofmagic for their reviews!

For Panzergal: My, that was a very long review indeed! It made me really happy. There is a bit of a backstory for Beckett but I don't presume to write the whole thing. Have you ever seen the musical Les Miserables? I think Beckett's a bit like Javert, who is obsessed with the law and justice without mercy because he's trying to live down his past. I hope the water on your computer didn't kill it! Once, I spilled water on my mouse and could see drops rolling around inside. It survived, though! Thank you!

Disclaimer: 101 Dalmatians. Everywhere. Need I say more? I don't own POTC!

* * *

**Chapter 10 **

Rachel's father was called Henry. Whenever she accompanied him to his work he would go quiet, and she knew he was worrying. Henry was such a big man, she didn't think that he and worrying went together. But that's what daughters do to giant fathers; they turn them into matrons who wring their hands when a tiny breeze dares to blow.

They had to go down lots of steps to get to Henry's kitchen. The smell got worse and worse, and Rachel could feel all the stone above her like it was about to crash onto her head. Then there were the prisoners, some snoring, some who never slept. The constant feeling of being watched made her grateful for the floor-length cloak her father made her wear. He didn't want the men to know she was a girl -_a woman now_, she thought- and she agreed with him. She got enough trouble from that scrawny stable hand Tom without a bunch of convicts joining the party.

Rachel lived with Henry and Sir Furry the Cat in Brimstone Fortress, above the stables with all the peons. Every two weeks, she brought blankets into the jail where her father was a cook. The blankets were woven by officer's wives, at least that's what they wanted people to think. Rachel knew that servants did most of the work. And then Rachel brought the blankets down because _Rachel's her father's daughter, isn't she? She's not afraid of the big bad men, of that horrid, horrid_ _stench!_

Actually, Rachel feared the men and thought the smell was awful. But she figured that if her father could come down here every day, the least she could do is give him company now and then.

Following her father's heavy steps, blankets a great weight in her arms, all she knew was that she would drop off her load and be rushed back into the sunlight. It always went this way. In fact, she wished she could be on the battlements watching the _Extremely Formidable_ come into the docks. The _Extremely Formidable_ was said to be a beautiful ship and she carried high-and-mighties Rachel was eager to look at.

She didn't know that this morning would be like none of the others.

* * *

"You can help me distribute the blankets, but keep that cloak on," said a familiar man's voice. "These men are not good men, Rachel. D'you understand? An' I won't have 'em seeing you as anything but the sweet, modest girl you are."

Jack snorted awake. Across from him, Beckett gasped.

"Don't worry," a girl said. Then she laughed.

Beckett hit the door with hands, cheek, and chest. His feet slammed into Jack's thigh. "Open this door!" he bellowed.

Shocked voices came close. "Who's in there?" the man asked. "Stay back, Rachel!" A hand jiggled the padlock and keys clinked.

"Cutler Beckett and Jack Sparrow!" Beckett pounded his fists against the wood. "Get this door open!"

"Sir! Sir!" the man was shocked. "The padlock's jammed!"

"Then bloody unjam it!" Beckett squawked.

"Yes sir..." There was a huge ruckus.

"Captain. It's _Captain_ Sparrow," said a soft voice at Beckett's feet. "D'you mind?" Jack wriggled his legs and Beckett stepped back. Slowly, painfully, Jack rolled over and got to his hands and knees. "Well this is it, Beckie." He felt in front of him with his good hand, and then pulled himself up on the shelves and swayed, winded with the effort. "Don't be too morose...I'll send you a bouquet of beautiful roses an' a new pair a' new stockings."

Beckett backed up against the opposite wall, hugging himself. "Get me out of here before he starts again..." his voice was rough yet tremulous. Then he had to scratch his elbow.

"Rachel!" the man outside yelled. "Where are you going?"

* * *

"To get some guards!" she cried on her way out of the kitchen.

"Get back here!" Henry roared, but she was already halfway down the hall. One can move surprisingly fast when one is too poor to buy five petticoats and has to settle for two.

Rachel was not a bad girl. She don't go looking for trouble. But was she supposed to cower in a corner while her father knocked all his pots on the floor trying to find something to unjam the pantry door?

_Like hell._

She'd learned that one from Captain Harrison, who trained the Brimstone cannon crews. It made her smile.

At the end of the hall she turned right and went down a swirl of stairs. At the bottom was a table of guards who were halfheartedly playing cards and sleepily smoking pipes. When she entered the room, they became very alert.

The fat one's pipe fell into his lap. "Not again!" he squealed.

"Agent Beckett and Jack Sparrow are locked in our pantry!" Rachel cried. "The lock's jammed and we can't get them out!"

They clattered to their feet. The tallest one, a man with a nice jaw, seemed to be the leader. He spoke to two of the men. "Johnny, Rob, fetch Mr. Mercer." Then he addressed the fat guard, who was hopping around and batting at his breeches. "Gilbert, stop that awful dancing and come on!" Then he turned to Rachel. "Which kitchen, miss?" He gently took her elbow and drew her back up the stairs.

"Just at the end of this hall," she gasped as they came off the last step.

"Very good," he said, and they rushed down the hall. Rachel had to scramble to keep up with his stride. Henry met them at the doorway, shooting Rachel a dangerous look as they burst into his dim kitchen. Then he addressed the guard, "Lawrence. Good. Come look at this padlock..."

Lawrence released Rachel and she faded back as he and Henry hurried to the pantry door.

"Sir! Are you in there?" Lawrence shouted at the door.

"Guess," was the acid response. Rachel recognized Beckett's voice and stiffened. No one liked him very much; he had snake eyes and icy fingers.

"We'll get you out, sir!" Lawrence replied. "Mercer's on the way!"

* * *

"He'd better be!"Beckett snapped. He spoke to Jack, "I'd hate for him to miss any of this."

"Jus' think," Jack said weakly, "if y'd've not told Mercer t'report to you tonight, he'd've realized you were missing and you wouldn't have fleas now."

"Sir!" the guard called Lawrence shouted. "Has Sparrow hurt you?"

"Of course not!" Beckett almost stomped his foot.

"Actually," Jack called, "I was just waiting for us t'be discovered. "Din't want t'spend the night wif a corpse. But thanks for reminding me..." he caught his breath, "I'll just start punching him now."

"Touch him and you'll rue it to your dying day!" Lawrence thundered.

"Which is closer than you think," Beckett muttered. "He couldn't hurt a bloody mouse," he called. "Stop fretting like a woman and get us out!"

* * *

Being the only female in the room, Rachel found Beckett's words offensive and true to his character. Another reason to resent him. She handed the newly lit lantern to Henry, who took it and motioned her away. "Stay back, Rachel."

"I can't loosen the latch," Lawrence was saying. His temples gleamed with sweat. "This door is like a rock."

"Let me try." This new voice was deep yet flat. Mercer strode into the kitchen like a black vulture, trailing the carrion-scent of the torture chambers. Johnny and Rob followed him, looking rather green around the gills. Gagging, Rachel covered her nose and retreated to a corner.

Father and Lawrence drew back with a certain degree of fear as Mercer stretched out his hands and placed them flat against the door. His nails were dark with a substance Rachel didn't want to know. He pulled on the padlock, fingered the hinges, and then turned to Henry.

"The hinges're weak," he said in his Dutch accent. "Three men can break it down."

Henry nodded mutely and he, Lawrence, and Mercer lined up with their right shoulders against the door. They took three steps away from the door, and then waited for Mercer's signal.

Rachel was smelling burnt cotton. She turned and saw Gilbert standing nearby, dismally patting the black singe marks on his white breeches. He caught her looking and turned his back to her, but not before she saw him blush scarlet.

"Step away from the door, sir," Mercer called. "We're going to batter it down."

* * *

"All right!" Beckett could smile now. "Come along, Jack." He groped for Jack's arm, and then began pulling the pirate down the pantry.

"Thanks, darling," Jack muttered when Beckett let go.

"Coo, it's nothing."

For a moment, Jack didn't believe what he had heard. "That was spectacular," he murmured.

"Thank you, Jack," Beckett said lightly.

Jack leaned back against a barrel, feeling as if he was floating above his pain, thirst, and headache. Indeed, even the conversation was becoming completely surreal. How nice.

"Are you safe, sir?" Mercer called.

"Yes!" Beckett shouted.

"This being th'last moment we 'ave together," Jack said slowly, "I wonder if you'd condescend t'reveal yer favorite flower."

"Jack, you persistent rascal!"

"Please."

"No, we don't know each other well enough."

"Fine, be coy, I don't give a-"

That's when the door imploded.

* * *

Rachel had doubted it would work. But it did. When Mercer, Lawrence, and Henry hit the door, it splintered inwards and Mercer vanished into the darkness. Her father and Lawrence reeled back, gagging and waving their arms.

The other guards nervously brought their muskets to bear.

"Smells bloody awful," Lawrence grated, then determinedly entered the pantry.

What had happened in there?

Henry moved to stand protectively in front of Rachel. The smell came with him. It was onions and smoke and sweat and unwashed body and _rot. _Again, Rachel was gagging, her eyes watering furiously.

* * *

Light flooded into the pantry, led by a specter in black. A specter with a death glare directed at Jack. Jack woozily ducked but Mercer caught him by the throat and heaved him onto the barrel. Choking, Jack got the full force of the monstrous man's regard and realized Mercer didn't need verbal threats.

Mercer glanced at Beckett, who was lounging a few inches away, his arms crossed. Mercer's eyes widened a tiny bit, which was a huge reaction for him. "Are you all right, sir?"

Beckett stretched his cracked lips in a smile. "Never better."

"Good." Mercer dragged Jack past a gaping Lawrence and into the kitchen. He flung him onto the table, knocking the air from his lungs. Everyone drew back instinctively.

Drat, Jack hated it when he couldn't breathe. But he was too tired to get his breath back. He could feel consciousness slipping away.

A feminine gasp brought his eyes open. There was a woman here? He looked for her. He didn't know why he did; he just wanted to faint before Mercer touched him again...

Blurrily, he saw her. She was standing in the arms of a large man, a small, demurely dressed brunette with brown eyes that looked huge in her pale face. She looked ready to cry.

Then a vicious hand yanked his hair and consciousness snapped away.

* * *

Rachel watched Mercer drag the bizarre prisoner from the table and raise a fist, ready to hit him in the face. _How could he?_ She covered her mouth in horror. She had not been sheltered from brutality, after all, she lived in a military fortress. But she had never witnessed this hatefulness before and it floored her.

Jack Sparrow was completely limp, unconscious. His breeches were white and powdery...why? With a disappointed growl, Mercer dropped him back onto the table. Jack's wrist flopped off the side, and Rachel stared at the swollen limb. It had some sort of bandage on it, but the bandage was soaked. So it was true. He had been branded.

Beckett came up beside Mercer. Rachel would have laughed at if she wasn't so shocked. Beckett's wig was gone. She'd never seen his hair before; it was brown and cut very short. It receded from his forehead, which was smeared with...was that flour? His eyes were bloodshot and his lips peeling. His entire outfit was grimy and there was a bruise under his eye. What had _happened _?

He scratched behind his ear. "Take him to the infirmary. I want him guarded at all times."

"Sir? The infirmary?" Mercer asked.

Beckett shot him a deadly look. "Do as I say. It is your responsibility to make sure he doesn't escape while he recovers."

For a moment, there was confused silence, but no one dared let it continue. Mercer nodded to Lawrence, who instructed his men to carry Jack Sparrow to the infirmary.

Then Beckett's eyes landed on Rachel. For a moment, he almost looked embarrassed. "What's a bloody woman doing here?"

Henry pulled Rachel out of the kitchen before one could say 'quit cussing already.' He towed her so rapidly down the hall, she was almost running. "I knew I'd regret letting y'come," he growled.

She couldn't answer. All she saw was Beckett and Mercer standing over their victim, ghoulish wolves planning terrible things.

Oh, that tanned, angular face, bruised...the tangled exotic black hair, the tortured wrist, and that helplessly limp body. And a story of a man who let slaves go because of what he believed.

Jack Sparrow...

**...kindly asks that you review! He might share some of his dirt if you do! ;)**

* * *

"Jack used to have a wife and child, until something happened and he was forced to leave them behind. But now he has a chance to see his daughter again. But at what cost?" Sound good? It is! This is LostWitch5's story, _Long Lost_. Check out this talented writer's work!

_Life, Lies, and One Big Secret_ is an awesome fic by kweenofmagic. "Jack is off to find the Fountain of Youth. And he taking only two people with him." Who are the two people?? Read and find out!


	11. Complications

**A/N:** This chapter is shorter than normal AND a week late! I'm so sorry! Writer's block tackled me weeks ago and it's been an ongoing battle to find inspiration, not to mention time in which to write. I know these are problems we all deal with, though, and I promise not to abandon this story. Stick with me, friends!

Thank you to reviewers who've chipped away at my writer's block with their wonderful reviews: LostWitch5, Pirate Trixi, Starling Rising, Jennifer Lynn Weston, jedipati, panzergal, TavyBeckettFan, kweenofmagic, and Eldonyx (_merci!_). This chapter is all yours because your encouragement brought it to life! Lots of chocolate to all!!

**(**To Panzergal: Hooray for your laptop surviving! I was SO grateful for your input about the first/third person thing. I'm not sure why I made Rachel first person, but I felt uneasy about it. Your input is just what I needed and I changed everything to third person. Beckett will be a main character until the very end, don't worry! It would get boring without him. I agree with the differences between Beckett and Javert that you pointed out. I guess the only parallel I wanted to draw between them is this: a revulsion for their pasts _partially_ drives them. Does that make sense? And Les Mis is one of my most favorite musicals, too. It's absolutely timeless. Thank you!**)**

**Disclaimer**: Bambi's wandering around, looking for his mother! And I just saw her a little bit ago...I may have to venture out to help them find each other. I also want to scold whoever decided to have Bambi's mom die in the movie, since her death broke my little-kid heart! (Am I the only one?) I don't own POTC!

* * *

**Chapter 11**

As the sun heaved itself above the horizon, Cutler Beckett sank into warm bathwater and pondered irony.

While he'd been experiencing the worst night of his life, people _had_ been wondering where he was. His personal servants (all two of them) had wondered. The guards that Sparrow had forced him to send away had also wondered. But none of them of them had said a word.

Beckett knew what they had thought. _Why has he been gone so long? What could he possibly be doing? No, let's not ask. We don't want to know._

Ah, the price one paid for being able to terrify others by simply existing. No one had questioned taking Jack to the infirmary. No one questioned his order that Jack be tended to by Brimstone's best doctor. Everyone simply obeyed. Beckett dipped his mouth beneath the water, wetting his dry lips so he could smile to himself. Power was delicious.

Even better was this water, scented with expensive sandalwood. And his bathroom, a small, neat space with towels hanging over a chair and a high window letting the sun in. His skin was prickling with delight. When he dipped his head under and rose again, it felt cool and fresh.

The only sad thing was that he had had to add oil to the water that would get rid of fleas. If it didn't work, heads would roll. Beckett rested his own head on the side of the tub and closed his eyes.

* * *

Half an hour later, he stood behind a sun-warmed pane of glass and looked down on Brimstone Fortress's main courtyard. It usually swarmed with workers and sailors and marines, but the swarming had stilled. All attention was on two carriages harnessed to jet-black horses in the courtyard's center. "Admiral Rowe did not tell me he was coming," he snapped to himself, "least of all that his daughter'd be part of the baggage."

Beyond the east wall, the Caribbean had the gall to be a magnificent blue. Beckett thought mean thoughts at it. It only got bluer. Nothing in the world could thumb its nose at you better than the sea.

Below, the first carriage's door was opened by a white-wigged lackey. A large hand and a deep blue sleeve emerged and were followed by the rest of Admiral Rowe's formidable frame. The fifty-something widower was a lion-like man, his posture proud, his middle unsagging. His was a profile that could be put on a coin, noble, with far-seeing eyes and a firm mouth. He wore his heavily decorated uniform like he'd donned it at birth.

"This will get in the way of your plans for Sparrow," Mercer spoke up from a few feet behind Beckett.

"Do you think?" Beckett's voice dripped lofty sarcasm. "Oh, well," he murmured to himself, still gazing at the carriages, "Captain Charisma will keep them occupied with tours...I won't have to see them until supper."

Captain Charisma, better known as Captain Taylor, strode up and shook the Admiral's hand and flashed his famous smile. As the commander in charge of the fort, it would be Captain Taylor's job to entertain these unexpected guests. Lucky.

He and Admiral Rowe were exchanging friendly words, but Beckett's eyes were on the carriage. The wigged lackey lifted hand and the second passenger began to disembark. First came a slender, gloved hand and a neat lacy sleeve. Then came a white slipper, a filmy cream skirt, and a glorious head of brown curls.

Lady Rowe stepped down lightly, straightening her sleeves as she looked around her with a smile.

Beckett drew back from the window.

Please turn to page 14 of your _Piratical Adventure Guide_ and read the second paragraph titled "Her Name is Lady Rowe: What Is Up With That?"

Yes, it's odd that Admiral Rowe's daughter isn't called 'Miss Rowe.' The title we've been using, 'Lady Rowe,' belongs to the wife of Admiral Rowe, not his daughter. This has caused rumors of a most distasteful sort to waddle around the local gossip. Your Character Guide was designed to keep rumors at a minimum (and also to reveal silly things about the characters like the fact that Beckett's middle name is probably _Humphrey_ and that he likes five lumps of sugar in tiny cups of tea which is the equivalent of downing ten cups of coffee. And that Admiral Rowe once owned a parakeet named 'Parakeet.')

Just in case your Character guide doesn't make this clear: 'Lady Rowe' is a nickname for Miss Rowe among her friends. They call her Lady Rowe because calling her 'Miss' is like calling a thoroughbred racehorse 'Lumpy the Pony.' In public, her friends _do_ refer to her as 'Miss,' but only when they have to. If you're still confused, I hope that further observation of the young woman will show you that she simply must be called 'lady' and not 'miss.'

While I was annoying you by using three paragraphs to explain something that could have been contained in one, Captain Taylor had kissed Lady Rowe's hand and given her his extra special smile.

Beckett's watching eyes narrowed.

* * *

"No, Tumamuma, I don't want bananas! Take that pygmy over there an' make sure th'pickles're safe in the rain barrel b'fore I take that precocious bit of fur off yer head!" a delirious Jack tried to roll onto his side, but his right wrist was cuffed to a bedpost. "The blame's being placed upon me poor person when I…" he trailed off into a groan.

Walters, one of Brimstone Fortress's main physicians, surveyed his patient with weary frustration. Sparrow had been going on like this for hours. The pirate was in a bad way and Walters had always had a physician's heart – he would help anyone suffering a bodily ailment. Sparrow's wrist had been especially atrocious. He wouldn't lose his arm, but it had been a close call.

Walters was trained to tend wounded sailors and soldiers, not flea-bitten scumbags destined for the gallows. Unfortunately, Culter Beckett had given the order and Walters was in no position to rebel. He had a cousin whose spice business depended on the East India Trading Company and Beckett's toady, Mercer, had made it clear that any rebellion on Walters's part would send his cousin into poverty faster than he could say "What's going on?"

So Walters dipped a cloth into a bowl of water and placed it on Jack Sparrow's forehead. The pirate shook it off. Walters put it back on.

"_Aubergines_ n'auditory compl'cations…" Jack muttered. He didn't shake the cloth off again.

Walters smoothed his long apron and pushed up his spectacles. An awkward silence fell as he tried not to look around his airy infirmary. It was a long room with two rows of empty beds. High windows let the golden morning sunlight in. One patch of sunlight glared off the crimson arm of a soldier. Soldiers sat in each corner of the long room and two more flanked the door.

Walters had never had his infirmary under guard and from what he heard, this was unnecessary. The pirate was going to die; there was no reason to nurse him back to health! Walters pondered Beckett. Since the agent's arrival three months before, strange things had happened. People had become suspicious and utterly silent. _He's the true infection in this place._

The infirmary door opened and the object of Walter's unhappy thoughts strode in. As always Cutler Beckett was impeccably dressed, this time in wine-red silk. Mercer followed him, dark as ever. As the two men approached, Walters braced himself with a deep breath and stood respectfully. Beckett motioned him to sit back down.

"How is he?" Beckett asked.

"He was extremely dehydrated," Walters said, "and if he had gone without water for a few more hours, his fever would be out of my reach. As it is, I don't know if he'll beat it."

Walters watched Beckett watch Jack. There was a very unwholesome gleam in Beckett's green-gold eyes as they traced the pirate's prone form. Walters noted several red spots on the agent's face. Clearly Beckett had run into a multitude of fleas.

Beckett scratched his elbow, lips tightening. "Can you give me an estimate of how long it will be before he's recovered?"

"He almost lost his arm and it will take him weeks to regain his strength. His fever could break at any time between now and the day after tomorrow...or the week after next. What sort of 'recovered' do you mean?"

"The kind of recovered where he'll stay awake," Beckett said coldly, lifting his eyes to Walters'.

"Two days...or two weeks." Walters was alarmed by the intensity of Beckett's gaze.

The agent blinked slowly, like a cat. "For your own good, you'd better make it two days."

**Use the purple button, Luke! Oops - wrong movie... ;)**


	12. Things Ain't Getting Simpler

**A/N:** I am hoping you all enjoy the new characters I'm bringing in! I know it can be hard to welcome strange characters when you're used to two men constantly arguing and nobody else distracting you. Don't worry, though, plenty of quality Beckett and Jack time is in the future! Jack's just a little out of it at the moment.

Thank you to LostWitch5, kweenofmagic, Starling Rising, Jennifer Lynn Weston, JaxLass, TavyBeckettFan, and Panzergal for you reviews!

**((**for Panzergal: ACK you are so sweet! Thank you very much for your incredible support!**))**

Disclaimer: Cruella de Ville and Ursula just had an argument. I really didn't need to see that. I don't own POTC!

* * *

**Chapter 12**

Noon!

...Had already gone by, thank all the minor gods nobody knows about! Otherwise, this day would stretch forever. Phew, let's stop wasting time thinking about how noon is gone, and how 'noon' is a palindrome, which means it looks the written forwards and backwards.

Rachel stepped out of tilting shadows and examined her hands. Ink stains made them look diseased. They always did when she'd just finished lessons with Reverend Tuppins.

Reverend Tuppins, (secretly known among the children as 'Tuppy') lived in Brimstone's built-in chapel. His job consisted of giving sermons, hearing last confessions, and reassuring sailors returning from bizarre lands that Christianity still reigned over witch doctors' potions and angry crones' curses. On top of all this, he taught morning and afternoon classes on reading and writing and mathematics. He felt all people should be educated, so Rachel got to attend lessons every day.

She knew learning was a privilege, but today her gratitude had deserted her. It was hard to focus on conjugations when the Rowes were loose in the fortress, Jack Sparrow was in the infirmary, and Beckett and Mercer were planning something insidious.

Now that Rachel was free, though, she wasn't sure what to do. The sun was starting to set and she knew she should check on her father, Henry Hanley, and his cat, Sir Furry. Because Henry's kitchen had been closed up, he hadn't anything to do.

But she'd thought about Jack Sparrow at least once every half hour...all right, every five minutes...no, every two minutes-

All right, she'd thought about him the entire morning.

Brimstone's main courtyard stretched before her, cobblestones dotted with horse droppings and straw. A wing of marines was practicing marching, yelled at by a commander with a parched throat. Workmen strode back and forth, shoulders hunched under the summer sun.

Rachel lifted her eyes and gasped. On the west battlements stood Captain Taylor with the Rowes, the Admiral so tall, so proud, and his daughter slender and reed-straight, her elegant skirts blowing lazily. She made a flickering gesture with her hand and Captain Taylor laughed. Rachel sighed longingly.

She knew Jack Sparrow was under guard. She had to get into the infirmary at least, and see if they were slowly bleeding him or something else rotten. Perhaps she could fake an injury. Or she could make a delivery of...of what? Bandages? She had never made bandages and the infirmary staff would be suspicious of a random girl walking in with bandages that looked like ripped up bed sheets, because bed sheets were Rachel would use.

She could talk to Reverend Tuppy. He was the closest thing she had to a friend. But...no. He was an adult on the payroll of the British Navy. Double badness.

Rachel decided to walk and think at the same time. All that happened was she dithered over the same problems over and over again (and almost stepped in a historically large horse pile). Nothing was definite enough. The risks were too great, or she had no clear method of carrying out her ideas.

She concluded her pacing with the decision that she was a coward. Then she dithered about _that_. She was almost wringing her hands as she slipped into an alleyway between the Fortress wall and the forge. She was so busy berating her lack of courage, it took her a full minute to realize there was a dark smudge in her peripheral vision whenever she turned her head. One glance revealed an unmistakable figure in black and gray.

Mercer.

A second, confused glance showed they were alone, their only company blue shadows, the call of a seagull, and the dim clang of a ferrier's hammer. Now she was breathing faster and realizing just how long this little alleyway was. It went behind the ferrier's and the stables, stretching about eighty yards before her.

Another glance back. Mercer had closed the gap to less than twenty yards, and there was no mistaking he was coming for her. Adrenaline whooshed through her from behind and before she realized it, she'd picked up her plain brown skirts and was lunging into a full-out sprint.

It felt wonderful for a moment to actually act, but she heard two heavy steps behind her and then she was being spun into the wall by a hand on her elbow. The back of her head smacked the stonework of the fortress wall and a dull, aching clang echoed through her skull. She blinked stars away and found herself pinned by her arms. The hands that locked her in place were cruelly tight.

Mercer's face was like folded stone. She couldn't picture him as a boy – had he been born this way? Wrinkles crisscrossed firm skin...or were they scars? He looked like a man who had walked into Hell for a meeting with the Devil, and then walked back out. He could kill her without blinking. Rachel couldn't breathe.

"I'm only going t'a say this once," he snapped. "What you saw this morning did not happen. You will take no action concerning what you saw. You will tell no one. You will not write about it in any sort of diary. You, Miss Hanley, and your father are loose ends. You cause one bit of trouble," his face came so close that his terrible eyes filled her world, "and I will not hesitate to snip you both away." He yanked her forward then slammed her into the wall. "Understand?"

Rachel nodded wildly, tears closing up her throat and burning in her eyes. Mercer released her and stalked away, wiping his hands.

Rachel's knees gave out and she slid into a huddle on the ground, hyperventilating and sobbing at the same time. In all her eighteen years she had never been so terrified. What had she and her father gotten themselves into?

She didn't know how long she huddled there, but soon her heart slowed down and she took a deep, shaky breath. And then to her alarm, she blew a snot bubble out of one nostril. Seconds later she had used her handkerchief and was feeling a bit less revolting. Her head ached. She felt the back of her skull and realized her hair was coming down and the entire area was sensitive to touch.

_Bully. He's such a bully!_

"Miss Hanley?"

Footsteps on the dirt made her look up quickly. Her eyes widened.

A grandly uniformed Lawrence stretched incredibly high above her for a moment. Then he removed his tricornered hat, bent his athletic legs, and folded himself down to her size. She watched his face, warmed by the wrinkle of concern between his dark eyebrows. "Can I help you?"

"I don't think so," she said, wishing her eyes weren't so puffy. "No. But thank you."

His eyelids lowered slightly over his gray eyes, revealing annoyance with her brush-off. "At least let me take you to your father. You live above the stables, yes?"

She nodded.

"Very well, then." He held out one hand. It was a lean hand with sculpted tendons and bones under tan skin. Calluses rimmed his palm. Rachel surreptitiously wiped her damp hand on her dusty skirt and then laid her hand in his. His fingers curled softly around, barely there. But then he stood and when he helped her up, his fingers tightened into a firm grip.

Rachel swayed back against the wall, taking back her hand. Lawrence frowned at her. "What happened to you?"

She watched him smash his hat back onto his dark hair and said, "I had a bad day."

"Hmm." Lawrence's reply was half growl.

Rachel wanted to growl herself. _At least one good thing has come of this_: _I know what to do._

* * *

Beckett could handle devils. But the Rowes...they were a different matter. Sitting in the same room with them was a cowing experience. Even worse was being trapped at a candlelit table dripping with silver and glass, with little spots of food squashed into the leftover space.

Beckett reached for his wineglass. Damn, it was getting low again.

Lady Rowe had flawless posture and every move she made oozed refinement. Dressed in a silver satin gown that left her shoulders bare, a single strand of diamonds glittering with her sapphire eyes, she was the closest thing to an angel Beckett had ever seen.

This sentiment, he reflected, was cliché. Very cliché. Even worse was the fact that fondness he should have been applying to the price of those stunning diamonds was fastening itself instead to the woman who wore them. This was happening because, his mind told him, Lady Rowe was not unlike a diamond herself. A gleaming, flashing, pure-

So _very_ cliché. Beckett took a deep gulp of his wine.

"And when we finally arrived, no one was expecting us, least of all Admiral Pearson. Caught him in the act of smuggling a fortune in slaves onto a ship headed back to Africa." Captain 'Charisma' Taylor shook his head with a wicked smile. "Ruined his day."

"I'm sure," Lady Rowe murmured around a smile.

_'Ruined his day_,' Beckett echoed snidely in his mind. The Rowes, Charisma, Beckett, and Captain Hemmings, master of the _Extremely Formidable_, were the only people around a table that easily could have fit twenty. Beckett was glad for the distance.

"I heard about Pearson," Admiral Rowe said. His voice was deep and slightly weathered by days of breathing salty air. "What a disgrace to the slave trade."

Charisma nodded, looking nobly regretful. "He faced court martial, though. And how is your own share in the trade faring, sir?"

"Excellently," Rowe said. "The development in America has exploded and they can't get enough slaves. I've never seen such demand."

Charisma raised a glass. "To the trade of the century."

"The trade of the century," Rowe agreed, following suit. Beckett, Captain Hemmings, and Lady Rowe also lifted their glasses before drinking.

The wine was bitter on Beckett's tongue. He hated being a peripheral admirer, left to copy those who with true prestige. Someday, he thought, people would echo his toasts and inquire about his business.

"Speaking of mischief in the slave trade," Lady Rowe said suddenly, "we've heard that you have an offender locked up in this very fortress."

"Jack Sparrow?" Charisma said. "Yes, he's here. But his fate is in the hands of the East India Trading Company."

All attention turned to Beckett. Suddenly, he had a terrible itch on the sole of his foot. Another flared on his derriere. Rage closed his throat. He squirmed minutely. Heads were going to roll!

If we could please stop the snickering in the peanut gallery. Thank you.

"And how does the Trading Company handle such usurpers of procedure?" Lady Rowe asked Beckett, eyes gleaming.

"By disregarding the law on the high seas, Sparrow labeled himself a pirate," Beckett said. "He has been branded accordingly. I await orders as to his final fate."

"He was branded?" Lady Rowe said, porcelain face unreadable.

Admiral Rowe snorted. "Treated no better than a slave himself."

Lady Rowe's soft lips curled into a smile. "My thoughts exactly, Father." She took a sip of her wine. "Marvelous."

Beckett studied her for the fifth time that evening. The slow smile she had flashed had had a dangerous cast. _My thoughts exactly. _A phrase that could indicate any emotion from glee to dismay. And what did _Marvelous_ belong to - the EITC's methods or the wine?

"And how _does_ one draw a connection between releasing slaves and piracy?" Lady Rowe asked him.

_One can't_. The brand was meant to ruin Sparrow's life and had been a result of terrible anger. "It's a common punishment," Beckett lied. And then took another sip of wine.

"He deserved it anyway," Charisma cut in. "Shall we retire to the parlor?"

They shall-ed, standing and moving away from the table. Charisma was ready to escort Lady Rowe, but she hung back, turning toward Beckett. Charisma shot Beckett a black look as Beckett moved to the woman's side.

While this little soap-opera drama lingers, please turn to page 5 of your Piratical Adventure Guide and read the second paragraph.

_Miss 'Lady' Elissa Rowe had a proper coming-out at age sixteen but she disappeared shortly afterward, voyaging with her father and finally living in India for three years. Disappearing like that was unforgivable. Aghast mothers and sons had abounded, for she had been quite an eligible package, attractive, too. But everyone forgave her upon her return (which was reputedly forced by her father when he came home for two days and realized she was getting old) because she had brought a doubled fortune. Now, barely twenty, she was again one of the most eligible women on the market. If eBay had existed back then, it would have been overwhelmed by the sheer numbers of voters. The servers would start on fire and then no one would be able to find chunks of movie stars' hair and little piggy banks painted like turtles-_

That's far enough.

Lady Rowe and Beckett met as the others exited the room. Beckett held up one arm, and with a soft wave of lilac scent, Lady Rowe slid her hand into the crook of his elbow.

"You look quite dashing," she said as they slowly walked forward. "Being away from Society agrees with you."

Beckett's mouth was cotton-dry. "I do find it refreshing, Miss Rowe. Do you?"

"Very much so," she agreed. "Cutler," the use of his Christian name made him stiffen,"have you noticed the increasingly brutal face the Trading Company is giving itself?"

He'd expected something like an invitation to meet her somewhere later. "Business is brutal, Miss Rowe."

"Just so. You are a shrewd man, Cutler. They're lucky to have you."

Beckett wondered if he'd ever be able to think productively again.

* * *

The day was dying. Jack Sparrow seemed to by following suit. Walters, physician, worried that death would be his own punishment if Jack lost this fight with a fever. The pirate couldn't keep liquids down, his lips were cracking, and his skin was dry and rough. He was being burned alive from the inside and there was nothing Walters could do but keep trying to give him water and moistening his skin with a cloth.

Jack groaned and feebly tried to push off his blankets. He had stopped shouting, crying, and laughing his way through his hallucinations hours ago. The guards seemed relieved, talking to each other in low voices while Walters, in a haze of weariness, pulled the pirate's dreadlocks away from his neck before they could strangle him.

It was going to be a long night.

**Your input means so much to me! please review! :)**


	13. Exploding Sheds!

**A/N: **I had fun writing this chapter and I hope you all enjoy reading it. Thank you to TavyBeckettFan, Jennifer Lynn Weston, kweenofmagic, and Panzergal for your reviews! Special thanks to kweenofmagic for the double reviews and the humor. ;)

**((**To Panzergal: Yes Beckett does have a bit of a crush. I'm glad you don't think I'm compromising his character by doing such a thing. I just thought that since he's relatively young in this story, he'd still have a few hormones left in his body, enabling him to get crushes. I'm also glad you like Lady Rowe! Thanks for your encouragement!**))**

Disclaimer: I don't own POTC and am now on the run! They broke down the door and I was forced to climb through a window! Now I'm running for my life through a forest. Golly wolly!

* * *

**Chapter 13**

"He's fought the fever all night," Walters said. "Honestly, I didn't think he'd make it."

Beckett fixed Walter's in an icicle-gaze, hating that he had to glare _upward_. "Don't try to put a positive twist on this, Doctor. He's still sicker than a cow and _that_ is what matters, not your low expectations for his survival."

Walters swallowed. "Yes, sir."

It was eight o' clock exactly. Beckett looked chipper in a deep blue coat and cream breeches. The spots on his face were fading and the bruises under his eyes simply enhanced his dagger-like intensity.

It was now eight o-one. Walters's eyes were scratchy and his head ached with weariness and stress. His long apron sagged low on his chest and his hair was mussed. The bruises under _his_ eyes made him look like a soggy leaf about to disintegrate.

Beckett was decidedly unsympathetic. "Straighten that apron. You look worse than he does."

Walters felt dubious about this. It would be hard to look worse than Jack Sparrow. Simply put, he looked like a doll tossed in a river and washed up on the shore. Then pressed into the mud by a plow horse's hoof. Then dug out by a drooling, flea-ridden dog and carried around in its mouth for a week. Then used to keep a butcher's door from closing. And then kicked through London by a bored peddler.

"How much time has gone by since I last visited our invalid?" Beckett asked suddenly.

Walters glanced at the six fresh guards standing around the room and trying not to look like they were listening in. "Twenty-four hours, sir."

"A full day," Beckett agreed quietly, unblinking eyes fastened on Walter's face. "I'll do the math for you. You have twenty-four more hours...and then all hell breaks loose. And when I say hell..." he stepped closer to Walters, "I mean it."

Walters decided he adored staring at his shoes. "Understood, sir."

Beckett turned on his delicate heel and left. Mercer, previously hovering about the doorway, joined his master. They strode down a long, faceless corridor.

"Jack Sparrow will be on the rack tomorrow morning, recovered or not," Beckett muttered. "This waiting is heinous."

"I'll see what I can do," Mercer added quietly.

"With Walters?" Beckett snorted. "The man was asleep on his feet, the bastard."

Beckett crossed into the main part of the citadel. He briskly rounded a corner-

-and almost slammed into a pale green column of nice-smellingness.

* * *

It was mind-bendingly hot. Fire serpents licked his feet. Bubbles of wind tore into his mouth, sucking moisture from already-parched flesh. A sand dune sat upon him, a silent furnace heavy as the world. Jack Sparrow could hardly even breathe.

He hurt. He hurt. He hurt.

In his mind, he sat down before a tiny stage. On the stage was a brick shed, four feet by four feet. A man was pulling a sack of flour inside. There were already five such sacks in there, looking like huge loaves of white bread. Why did the man need more?

Jack raised his hand. He had to ask!

The man never looked up. He pulled out a knife and began to slash open the bags of flour. Spumes of flour shot up; cascades of it slid serpent-like to the floor. The man kicked at the flour sacks until clouds of the tiny particles streamed dreamily out the doorway. Then he lit a candle and dropped it straight into the whole mess.

He left the shed. The instant he cleared the doorway it filled with mortared bricks, as if it had never existed.

The man straightened and looked Jack in the eye.

Jack's hand dropped and he shrank in his seat.

* * *

Beckett dug in his heels to keep from plowing straight into Lady Rowe. (Though the thought of such bodily contact was quite an attractive one). He heard her surprised gasp and then he was watching her draw herself up, up, up, an annoyed hardness about her normally soft mouth.

She was wearing a silk gown of green so delicate the folds looked like they'd shatter if handled roughly. Her dark hair was pulled back into curls that cascaded down her back. She looked oddly young.

Beckett bowed. "Pardon me, Miss Rowe."

"You must pardon me as well." She curtsied briefly.

They stared at each other.

"Your friend doesn't like me," she said.

"What?"

"That scarecrow shadow of yours," she said, her mouth amused now.

"Mercer." Beckett glanced back and found that Mercer had vanished. "I'm sure it's nothing personal - he's shy."

Pleasantly smiling now, Lady Rowe did an about-face. They walked together down a corridor dotted with arched windows. The run raged through each window, lighting Lady Rowe on fire as she passed by.

"You enjoy rising early, I see," she said.

"I like having a head start on the day."

"Well I don't," she said plainly. "It doesn't seem possible to get 'a head start' on time."

She stated her opinion so freely, it gave him shivers. In some oddly delicious way, he wanted to crush her. But politeness was the rule. "It must feel odd, then, to be up so early."

She smiled. "I don't sleep well in unfamiliar beds."

"Oh, yes." Beckett could feel his neck heating up. They strolled on in silence, she relaxed, Beckett with his hands behind his back and scandalous thoughts on his mind.

"You were in the infirmary?" she asked suddenly.

* * *

Jack stared.

The man was tall, confusingly dressed, and his face was so weathered it seemed petrified. Kohl was smeared about his heavy-lidded eyes, and a sash, so much like Jack's, covered his forehead. His hair was black as night, dotted with beads and dreadlocks.

"Use your head, boy," he rasped, voice deeper than a dream.

The shed exploded behind him, sounding like a giant slapping a mountain. Bricks flew and the man vanished in a white-yellow flame that hurtled thirty vengeful feet into the air with a shrieking roar. Heat so intense Jack could feel his clothes crackling slammed over him in waves. Curled, hands up to shield his face, he felt himself truly begin to burn.

He couldn't scream, couldn't dictate a will. Couldn't even whistle.

* * *

Rachel walked straight into the infirmary, head down, heart pounding. She felt awful, a bundle of nerves and aches. Somewhere inside she was wondering, What is going to happen? What am I doing?

She felt her knees going weak and leaned more heavily on her father's arm. A small woman in a drab blue dress and a lace cap emerged from the infirmary's single corridor.

"Mrs. Cayton!" Rachel's father exclaimed.

"Mr. Hanley?" the woman said. Her eyes fell to Rachel. "Rachel, dear!" she pressed a hand to Rachel's forehead. "So pale. What ails her?"

"Don't know. I found her this mornin' in bed wit' a splittin' headache," Mr. Hanley said. "Says she didn't get a wink o' sleep. Thought you could help."

"Well, she's not feverish," Mrs. Cayton replied. "But I'm sure she'll thank us if we let her lie down before we discuss any further. Follow me."

Two minutes later, Rachel lay down on a narrow cot. When the bruised back of her head hit the pillow, she suppressed a wince and rolled onto her side. This room was small, with two cots along one stone wall and a high window above each.

The cot tilted as Mrs. Cayton sat. Mr. Hanley hovered above her. The grilling began. Where is the headache? _In my head._ Any other pain? _No. _Sore throat? _No. _Been staring at script for hours? _Not enough for a headache. _Male troubles? _...No. _

Mrs. Cantey nodded knowingly. Rachel was diagnosed with too much stress and told to rest all morning under Mrs. Cantey's care. Her father's brow wrinkled. Mrs. Canton fetched her some water, her father kissed her forehead, and then they both left, pulling the door to behind them.

Rachel gingerly felt the back of her head, then went very still.

"Will she be safe?" her father was asking. "I heard there's an odd situation here..."

"The pirate," was Mrs. Cantey's whisper. "Yes, he's here. But he's under heavy guard. Completely isolated. Rachel will be very safe."

"Even so, I'll come back at noon."

Their footsteps receded.

Rachel tucked a strand of hair behind her ear before it could poke her eye. She hadn't even put it up, she'd felt so awful.

She hadn't told her father about Mercer. As far as she knew, Mercer hadn't threatened her father. No. He had attacked her, the weaker one.

His assault had wreaked both mental and physical havoc. Her head was still bruised and the emotional impact was vaster than she'd expected. All night she had felt Mercer's merciless grip on her arms, seen his wolf eyes eating her up. She had fought the memory valiantly, trying to create mental space for scheming. She wanted to help Jack Sparrow, that brave, tan, lithe, helpless pirate, but she had failed. Mercer wouldn't let her alone.

But now she was in the infirmary. She couldn't have planned it better. How lovely to be female and therefore allowed to become incapacitated by _stress_.

She just had to figure out how to get down the hall.

* * *

To Jack's relief, the fire died. He was left smoldering, cooling, cursing. The little stage, the shed, the man, were gone and he was thirsty again, entire body aching for want of water...no, not water...

Rum. Aye. Rum! Rum-tum-tum! Rummy-tummy!

But rum was never there when he needed it. He'd have to look for it again. "Buggery dewdrizzles," he tried to say. Unfortunately, his tongue was roughly the size of Madagascar.

* * *

Walters was bathing his own face with water when Jack Sparrow's labored breathing subsided. The doctor almost knocked the water bowl over in his rush to the pirate's side.

Jack Sparrow breathed softly as a baby. Walters smiled at him, proud. Nothing was more powerful than the human body.

"Mubberly dregribbles," Jack croaked. And then he opened his eyes. Walters had forgotten how black they were. "Motter," he added, trying to moisten his cracked lips.

Walters was well-versed in sick-speech. He nabbed a mug with water and slid an arm under Jack's head, lifting the mug to his lips. The pirate frowned down at the cup, but he drank, gulping crazily. Then he stopped and his eyes lazily swiveled to Walters' face. He looked confused. Then he smiled.

"'ello, love," he said in a voice much recovered. Then his eyelids slammed down. He was fast asleep.

Slowly, Walters slid his arm free. Then he knelt beside the pirate's bed under the eyes of all the guards and exulted in the fact that they both were going to live.

_Well_, he amended, remembering Beckett's ice-splinter eyes, _I will._

**Terrihorribulabyssmalistic? Okayumediocresosoly? Funnyhilarigoodious? Do tell! **


	14. Beckett and the Bad Day

**A/N:** I sincerely apologize for not updating for so long. With summer here now, things should get better. Thank you so much for your patience.

Thank you to TavyBeckettFan, Jennifer Lynn Weston, kweenofmagic, Starling Rising, LostWitch5, Eldonyx, and Countess Sasha the Weird for your awesome reviews!

Disclaimer: I found a cave! It keeps going...I might get lost...good thing I brought my Pringles with me. And I don't own POTC.

* * *

**Chapter 14**

"Rachel? What are you doing here?" Lawrence asked.

"I'm here to help the doctor." Rachel stood before him, drably dressed as a nurse. She held a blanket and a cup of water.

"But Walters only stepped out for fresh air," Lawrence said.

"I know. I'm to watch over the patient until he returns." Rachel fidgeted. "Please let me by."

It figured that Lawrence would be guarding Jack Sparrow's room just when Rachel needed to get in. Lawrence had a nice face, but she didn't want to see it now. "Please, Lieutenant," she said.

He softened when she used his rank and shrugging, opened the wood door. The guards sitting inside looked out curiously. Rachel almost flinched as all eyes fixed on her with interest. Beyond the red uniforms was a bed. A figure with a tousled head of black hair sprawled there..._Jack Sparrow_.

"This is Rachel. She's come to watch the pirate until Walters returns," Lawrence said. "Can we let her in?"

They all exchanged glances. And kept exchanging glances. Finally, a blond man said, "Why not? Let her come in." The others nodded.

Something flashed in the corner of Rachel's eye. She turned, and felt her blood turn to ice.

Beckett was fast approaching down the hall. Mercer was on his heels.

"I have to go!" Rachel whirled and walked as fast as she dared down the hall.

"Wait!" Lawrence called, and then his voice changed. "Oh. Sir."

She was headed into a dead end. What if they had recognized her face? She hurried into a dim room, gasping, neck tingling. The room was not empty - two older men woke on their cots and looked at her groggily. Her first impulse was to turn tail and run to another room, but Beckett's voice stopped her.

"Who was that woman? I swear you were about to let her in."

"I..." Lawrence said, "she was only a nurse come to watch over the pirate, sir."

"That is not possible. You're under strict orders grant only Walters, myself, and Mercer entrance. And Walters should not have requested a nurse...unless he's not in there. Open the door."

"Yes, sir. Walters stepped out for some fresh air, sir."

"Well you just go an fetch him," Beckett snapped. "He'll learn what happens when he disobeys orders. We're taking Sparrow out – too many people are asking questions. Mercer, see if you can get the rest of this swine to help you move Sparrow. Just carry him with a blanket. I want him out of here _now_."

"Aye, sir."

"And when you're done, I want you to investigate the woman who is _only a nurse_. She looked familiar."

Rachel clutched the door jamb in a panic. The room was spinning.

"Whatsa matter, darlin'?" one of the sleepy men asked her.

"Be quiet," she choked, "please."

"Wot? Why?"

She snapped her head around. The mute plea on her face brought the patient's eyebrows up.

"Aww, do as she asks," the second man croaked, "or she'll cry."

"An' then I'd cry," the first agreed. "Could never stand to see a woman in tears."

"_Please_," Rachel gasped.

They grunted good-naturedly. She stared at the wall before her, trying to focus. She couldn't go into the hallway. But there were no windows. She could only wait.

They were taking Sparrow away! Panic washed over her again.

And then she heard a muffled _thud_. The floor quivered beneath her feet. Shocked, she looked around her. Shouts of alarm came from down the hall.

* * *

Jack woke up when he hit the floor. He heard men gasping in alarm. A dreadfully familiar voice spoke: "What the hell was that?"

The Beckett-lizard himself! Jack blinked repeatedly, forcing the room into focus. All around him, soldiers were looking around with wide eyes. Jack himself was in some sort of blanket sling that apparently had been dropped.

"Explosion, sir."

Ah, there was Mercer, too. What a lovely party. "Who's got the crumpets an' rum?" Jack inquired. His voice didn't quite work. By the Rhinoceros's Ribeye was he hungry!

Everyone looked at Jack. Jack looked at Beckett, whose eyes narrowed. Then Beckett took control. "You three and Mercer, get Sparrow down to the lower levels. The rest of you get out of here."

"Whoop!" Jack exclaimed as he was swooped up by four men. They rushed from the room and down a hall, and then into the sunlight. Jack could hear people calling to each other and running about, but all he could only see up two soldier's nostrils, plus a lot of sky. The motion of his sling made him dizzy, but it was good to feel the sun again.

They suddenly stopped. Jack was almost catapulted forward.

"Mr Beckett, sir! What is this?"

Jack got his eyeballs to stop spinning and saw a tall, charismatic man addressing Beckett. The sight of Beckett squinting up made Jack snort.

"Sparrow has recovered and must be returned to the lower levels," Beckett said crisply.

"That's not going to happen. There's been an explosion in the lower levels. It took out the main staircase entirely. You." He addressed the guards holding Jack. "Set him down and come help. We have wounded men, escaped prisoners, and fires to be put out."

"Captain Taylor, Sparrow must be taken back to the infirmary," Beckett said sternly. "He cannot remain out here unattended."

"Then _you_ attend to him. You can't take him back to the infirmary - the infirmary's about to be overrun and I need all my men. We'll arrange all this later – there are lives at stake this very instant!" With that, Captain Taylor strode off, and Jack's guards followed. Jack was left lying in the sun with Beckett's shadow over his legs.

"You will be held responsible for any trouble Sparrow gives!" Beckett shouted after Captain Taylor in a ringing voice.

Captain Taylor threw up one hand without turning. "As bloody if. You can kill him any time you want, you know."

Beckett's glare would have melted a French débutante's face paint and the name he called Captain Taylor would make the devil blush. He turned in a circle, encompassing the entire court with ill-will, muttering curses. He didn't seem to want to look at Jack.

"You!" he grabbed a young man as he ran past. "Drag him," he pointed at Jack, "over to that portico. He's sick and cannot remain in the sun."

When Beckett spoke like this, no one said 'no.' The young man grabbed the blanket at Jack's feet and hauled him across the cobbles. Beckett stalked at Jack's bouncing head, an icy tower of rage. Smoke was in the air. Horses were neighing and people were shouting. Jack was almost run over, but a strange lassitude had overcome him. The vibrations of the cobbles running beneath him turned him quite gooey inside, and he smiled sleepily at the world.

The lad left Jack tucked against a stone wall, in the shade. Beckett paced jerkily a few feet away, and Jack groggily watched him. "Jus' you an' me again, eh Beckie?"

Beckett's head snapped around. "Shut up. You haven't escaped anything yet." He stepped into the sun and caught a running Marine. "Can you tell me the exact location of the explosion?"

Sweat was running down the Marine's cheeks and his brown eyes were impatient. "Somewhere below the main stairway – which would have to be a kitchen."

Beckett released him. Then he stared straight ahead, blinking, hands limp at his sides. "Kitchen," he whispered, "and pantry." Slowly, he turned. "_Sparrow_?"

Jack grinned sunnily. "...Pirate."

**How DOES Jack do that? Thank you so much for reading!**


	15. Beckett and the Even Worse Day

**A/N**: Many thanks to Jennifer Lynn Weston, kweenofmagic, TavyBeckettFan, Starling Rising, Panzergal, and LostWitch5 for your marvelous reviews!

**((**For Panzergal: I hope we do eventually find out what Beckett's favorite flower is. Thank you so, so much for your review and I hope everything is going well!**))**

Disclaimer: I can hear them coming in the distance! I have climbed a pine tree and my hands are really sticky with sap. I'll have to remember not to touch any paper or leaves. I don't own POTC!

* * *

**Chapter 15**

No part of Brimstone Fortress had ever exploded before, and panic ran rampant. Captain Taylor ordered that all civilians be evacuated, but most of the Marines in the fortress were occupied with extinguishing the last fires, searching for wounded, and rounding up escaped prisoners. Other Marines crowded around the gateway to the fortress in hopes of catching the bomber. Not enough of them were able to ensure a successful evacuation.

That was when someone realized it had been a bad idea to order the civilians out. The guilty party had probably just waltzed off! This news spread. Disorder and anger increased and that was all.

Admiral Rowe did what he could to assist poor Captain Taylor, but ended up pacing the battlements. He was in a bad mood. Luckily, his daughter had been out on a country picnic. If she hadn't, if she'd been hurt...

Part of Admiral Rowe wanted to stay and help catch the person responsible for the mess. The bigger part of him needed to take his daughter away. He could not let her be hurt. He would have the servants start moving her things back to the _Formidable_. She could live there until they were ready to make way and then it was _Good bye Brimstone_.

It had been a stupid idea to bring her out in the first place.

* * *

"Father must be on his way to check on me," Rachel said. "I'll watch for him here."

"Very well, dear," a flustered Mrs. Canton said. "I must make ready for the wounded. Oh, ill-fated day!"

As the older woman bustled off, Rachel timidly peered out of the infirmary, squinting across the smoky, chaotic courtyard. She was looking for three people and she didn't have to look far.

Beckett's rigid figure paced at the other side of the courtyard. Mercer had just joined him. At their feet lay Jack Sparrow. No one was paying them any attention. They conversed for a moment. Then Mercer hauled Jack over his shoulder and followed Beckett toward the stables.

She watched them, breathing shallowly. _I want you to investigate the woman who is 'only a nurse.'_ The threat in Beckett's voice joined Mercer's verbal and physical threat, and for a moment, Rachel quailed. Then she clenched her jaw and tossed her head, making her sore neck twinge.

_Oh, no, you don't_. With those icy words in her mind, she stalked out of the infirmary-

And slammed into another young woman. Their heads knocked together, but it was the other young woman who fell to the ground with an exclamation. Holding her head, Rachel moaned and then looked at the young woman who was sprawled on the stones. "I beg your pardon," Rachel managed, offering a hand.

The young woman was dressed in a plain blue gown with a white shift beneath. She was floury – a cook. Her dirty face was angry. "This is the second time! What is wrong with the people in this dratted fort?" She let Rachel help her up, and then beat at her skirts. Flour poofed everywhere. "No one watches, no one looks! It's enough to drive a maid mad!"

Rachel kept a hand to her throbbing forehead, squirming. Beckett and Mercer were almost into the stables and she didn't want to let them out of her sight. "I apologize;" she said, "you're right, I didn't look. I will next time."

The cook's pretty face softened. "It's no matter." She bobbed a curtsy. "Good day, miss."

"Good day." Relieved, Rachel bobbed her own curtsy, and hurried toward the stables. Her hands were shaking. The closer she got to the stables, the slower her feet moved. She scanned the open-air stalls constantly, but her quarry was nowhere to be seen. They were inside. Did she dare enter? She didn't even have a plan!

At the entrance to the inner stables, her feet ground to a halt. She stood there, under the curious gazes of several horses and stable hands.

Footsteps rasped up behind her, and then the cook was at her side. They gave each other puzzled glances. The cook looked tense. "Hello," she said awkwardly.

"Hello," Rachel said, equally uncomfortable.

Silence between them.

"Well, fancy this," the cook said.

"Yes," Rachel said. Then she worked up her courage and strode into the dim warmth of the stables.

There was a long, wide corridor of barred stalls. A few horses peered expectantly out. At the end of the corridor were two doors and one was ajar. Wiping her palms on her skirt, Rachel headed for that door.

"Wait." It was a whisper. The cook suddenly had her arm. "Are you following them? Agent Beckett, Mercer, and the pirate?"

Rachel stared into the cook's striking blue eyes. "...No."

The cook nodded. "Then neither am I."

Rachel nodded, confused.

"Let's follow them together," the cook added.

Rachel gaped. "Who are you?"

"My name is Lorrie. Who are you?"

"R-Rachel."

"They've gone down to the lower levels. There's an entrance here. If we don't hurry, Jack Sparrow will be lost."

There was no time for Rachel to think. The young cook pulled her toward the half-open door by the arm. Puzzled, Rachel felt that Lorrie's hands were exceptionally soft. Well, cooks should have softer hands – they weren't like scullery and laundry maids.

They slipped into a low tack room. Another door framed by bridles took them into a cool landing that smelled of damp stone. Lit only by torches, the landing hesitated before plunging down a long flight of stairs. Puffing and rasping noises echoed up the descending passage. A timid peek over the edge revealed Beckett's white wig bobbing after Mercer's burdened form. Mercer was the one breathing like a winded horse. A limp Jack Sparrow would be a formidable weight indeed.

A minute later, the men had finished the stairs and disappeared down the ensuing corridor. The two young women followed, soundless in their soft shoes.

It was the worst game of Follow-the-Leader in the history of the world. When I mentioned this to Jack he made a list for me. I couldn't stop him. Also, as you'll see by the title, he got a hold of my thesaurus. I'm sorry.

_Why It Was Truly the Worst, Most Despicable, Heinous, Galling, Irksome, Plaguy, Troublous, Vexatious _

_Game of Follow-the-Leader in the History of the World and Quite Possibly the Cosmos_

_by Jack Sparrow, List-Crafter Extraordinaire and Advocate of Rummy Rights_

1. The followers had not ingested rum lately. Judging by their innocence, they probably had never ingested rum at all. This is deplorable.

2. The followers were unfamiliar with their environment, like butterflies in the Sahara Desert. They are butterflies because they are female. If they were male, they would be ladybugs. Ha. Ha.

3. Said environment (dungeon) was not exactly a garden party at Buckingham Palace. Who thought of Buckingham anyway; do they serve bucking ham at this palace? Is it a special breed of pig that kicks all the time?

4. Two of the followees, not including myself, were nasty buggers.

5. This list is devastatingly depressing because it should have been the Best Game of Follow-the-Leader. Why? Because they were following _Captain Jack Sparrow_, mate.

Lorrie and Rachel followed the men down three levels. They often had to crawl so the prisoners would not see them and make a racket. By the time they were watching the grimy torture chamber door close behind Mercer, Beckett, and Jack, they were covered with dust and cobwebs. Unaccustomed to the raw smell of this grim underworld, Lorrie had covered her nose and mouth with her hand. Rachel had to fight not to do the same.

There were caskets stacked against one wall, two high. The young women huddled behind these grisly containers, across the hall from the torturing chamber door. "How can we get him out of there?" Rachel whispered hopelessly.

"We'll think of something," was Lorrie's muffled response.

"There never was a somethin' what ended up as anythin' other than nothin'." The casket inches from their head _spoke_ in a deep voice. Rachel had to cover her mouth to keep from shrieking aloud. She tumbled back with an _oof_, tangling with Lorrie. They clutched hands as the cover of the top casket rose slowly. Two eyes glittered inside. Rachel felt the world beginning to spin. She wasn't breathing any more. She was going to _faint_.

"Wot's this?" The lid lifted the rest of the way and a head of stringy hair emerged. The eyes were in a face coated with years of grime. The face smiled, which was even worse because the lips were cracked and they revealed tormented gums and the stumps of teeth. "Two Eves straight outta Eden, innit," the man said. An arm came out, shakily tipping the lid off altogether. To the women's relief, the man set the lid quietly on the floor and then rose up until he was kneeling in the casket.

His clothes were crusty and stiff with filth. His shirt revealed a V of sickly white chest. His hands were knobby and the nails like talons. The lines on his face spoke no gentleness.

Rachel began breathing again, hyperventilating. Lorrie was squeezing her hand so tightly, the bones ground together. "Run," Rachel managed, and began to struggle to her feet. Lorrie did the same, but they ended up unbalancing each other.

"Eves, don't leave," the man rasped. To their shock, his eyes filled with tears. They froze. He bowed jerkily, as if it pained him, and looked up at them with a dog's hope. "Wot did I do?"

"Who are you?" Lorrie whispered, kneeling on the floor.

"Me mum lately christened me Insane Rob. But y'can name me anythin' y'wish, mistresses." Again, the groveling dog expression. "I've been kept in a box fer a lifetime, but thunder an' fire opened it."

"An escaped prisoner," Rachel gasped. "The explosion."

The man cocked his head. "I'm lookin' for somethin' ...the sun. Will y'help me find it?" He wiped the tears from his eyes. They shone a tired green.

Rachel glanced at the torture chamber door. They were in great danger of being caught. "We can't. We have to save someone."

Lorrie gave her a frightened glance. _Don't tell him!_

"The Ice Man," Rob said suddenly, in a deep voice.

Rachel and Lorrie exchanged glances.

"The Ice Man is in there," Rob pointed at the dungeon door. "I hid from 'im."

Slowly, the young women rose to their feet. "We've _got to go_," Lorrie hissed, trembling.

Insane Rob blinked sadly and spoke in that deep voice, "Mercy dies."

"What?" Rachel muttered.

"Ice Man brought his prey," Rob said in a new, serious voice. "A black-haired bloke. I saw 'im, thrown over th'shoulder of a vulture. You tryin' t'save the black-haired bloke?"

Lorrie's mouth opened, but no sound came out.

"Rob can help you," Rob said in a low, eager voice. "You carry th'black-haired bloke into that room." He pointed at a slimy door across the hall. "_After_."

"Come _on_," Lorrie said, pulling Rachel away. But Insane Rob was climbing out of the casket. With a happy glance, he skipped to the torture chamber door and wrenched it open.

Lorrie cursed and shoved Rachel back into the corner behind the caskets. An instant later, Rob's piercing shriek shattered the oppressive silence. "Hooo hooooeeeee ayahh! Humble Rob's at yer service!"

There came a man's surprised shout and another's curse. "Grab him, d--!"

"Put it down! PUT IT DOWN!"

The sound of clanging metal, like a duel of swords, and then a ringing clang.

"Run, little sheepies! Yip yip yip!"

Rachel and Lorrie exchanged a huge-eyed glance.

Suddenly the door burst open. First came a lumbering torturer in a stained apron. He rushed around the corner and was gone. Beckett came next, wide-eyed. Mercer followed, drawing a pistol. A glowing band smacked his wrist and the pistol went flying. Insane Rob appeared, a burning brand in each hand. His tangled hair floated and twisted in the waves of heat, and his face was lit like a demon's. He threw back his head and howled like a wolf.

Holding his burnt wrist, Mercer jumped back to avoid the blurring orange batons, twirled by Rob with astonishing speed. Beckett, cowering behind Mercer, ran around the corner, shouting for guards. Mercer and Rob continued their terrible dance, but Mercer had to give ground and soon, he was around the corner too.

For a moment, Rachel and Lorrie hesitated. Then they threw themselves into the torture chamber.

It was a hot nightmare. It smelled first of metal and then of pitch and then of burnt flesh. It was dark, cavernous, lit only by the evil furnace that brooded in a corner, mouth bristling with various terrible tools. There were three scarred tables. Jack lay on the middle one, weakly trying to roll onto his side. Rachel circled to his head and hooked her arms under his armpits. He went limp at her touch, gazing up at her with glazed eyes. Lorrie scooped his legs up at the ankles. They pulled him off, sagging under his weight.

"Go, go, go," Rachel gasped to herself. Lorrie leading the way, they scuttled out of the abominable room, and to the door Rob had indicated. Lorrie unceremoniously dropped Jack's bare feet and opened the door. She gagged. She picked up Jack's feet unsteadily and pulled them into the room. Rachel followed, gagging as well. The air was thick with death and wood-scent.

Stumbling, weary, disoriented by the odor, the two practically fell to the floor. Actually, they both landed on Jack, who groaned. "Have a care for his wrist," Rachel exclaimed, and they quickly scrambled off him.

A single torch lit the room. It was full of caskets without lids. Empty caskets. This was the last stop for a dead prisoner: he was packaged here and sent to a watery grave. The smell was the residue of unlucky souls.

It was a horridly good hiding place.

Rachel closed the door, then gazed at Lorrie. Breathing shallowly, they stared at each other with fear and shock at what they'd done.

Then Lorrie looked around. "This is odd," she said breathlessly. "I should think the caskets would be located at the woodworker's shop."

"But it's easier to have a supply here," Rachel said, wondering why they were discussing this.

Lorrie shrugged. "Well, it's perfect. If we can secure him in a casket and stow him away on the ship..."

"What ship?" Rachel demanded. "What are you talking about?"

"Aye, what're you talking about?" Jack Sparrow echoed, making his rescuers jump. They quickly knelt on either side of him.

"Are you all right?" Rachel asked.

Jack's liquid brown eyes, now very alert, darted between them. Then he gave a crooked little grin. "You must be the wee feathers what landed atop me. _Savvy_. And who might you both be, ladies?"

**Thanks for reading!**


	16. Hop, Skip, and a Jump

**A/N: **Many thanks to Jennifer Lynn Weston, Starling Rising, kweenofmagic, Pirate Trixi, quilldragon, and Panzergal for your reviews. You are wonderful!

Disclaimer: Well. They've surrounded my tree. I need a white hanky to surrender with. Anybody got one? I don't own POTC!

* * *

**Chapter 16**

"I'm Lorrie-"

"And I'm Rachel-"

"And we've gotten you away from Beckett and Mercer," Lorrie said quickly. "Now we must ge-"

"Hold yer horse tails." Jack frowned up at Lorrie. "Have we met before?"

"No!" she exclaimed. "We have to get you out of here. The _Extremely Formidable _will be leaving within the next day and if we can get you on it, you can be saved."

Rachel and Jack considered approvingly. Then they looked at Lorrie at the same time, identical questions in their eyes.

"You're just a cook," Rachel said bluntly. "How can you know when the _Formidable_ is leaving?"

Jack gave Rachel an appreciative glance. "Read me mind, luv."

Rachel blushed.

"Let's just say I'm on _very_ good terms with one of the sailors," Lorrie said shortly.

"Y'have me approval for certain," Jack said slyly. "But what'll Miss Regina and Lady Chester think? Oh, and the illustrious Admiral?"

Lorrie's face went stone-hard and she pulled back a hand as if to slap him. Rachel gasped and rising, caught Lorrie's wrist. "What're you thinking?" she hissed. Lorrie glared, lips trying to form words.

"Hit a man while he's down?" A grin bloomed on Jack's face, crinkling his eyes, making dimples in his cheeks, and revealing his glorious gold teeth. "My kind 'a lass."

"What is going on?" Rachel demanded. She caught Lorrie's flustered blue eyes and was suddenly very afraid. "Tell me!"

Jack spoke up. "Can I give a hint-why thank you. Lady Rowe doesn't want you to know that she's Lorrie; Lorrie doesn't want you to know that she's Lady Rowe. An' she didn't want me to know, either. Which shows a disturbing lack of cerebral utilization..."

Rachel released Lorrie's wrist like it was aflame and sank back on her heels. "_You're_ Lady Rowe?"

Lorrie's mouth was a harsh line. She gave Jack a searing glance. "Yes. Yes, I am. But it means nothing. I am still Lorrie, and you had better not let 'Lady Rowe' get in your mind's way. We cannot afford it."

Rachel nodded, cowed. "Why're you doing this?"

"It's quite obvious, love," Jack spoke up. He looked up at Lorrie, eyes piercing. "Isn't it?" He reached over with his good hand and took her hand, bringing it to his cracked lips.

Color appeared high on Lorrie's cheekbones and she pulled her hand away. "There's no time to discuss our philosophies. You're going into a casket, and then we need to get out of here without being seen."

"Huzzah," Jack said, with all the enthusiasm of a sun-warmed cat

"How are you going to sneak a casket into the cargo? Oh," Rachel exclaimed in surprise as Jack took her hand and kissed it, too.

"Didn't want t'leave you out, darling," Jack said graciously.

"Thank...you." She pulled her hand away and shook her head to clear it. "And how are we going to get the casket from here to the ship? This place is going to be crawling with guards soon."

"What she said," Jack agreed sleepily.

Lorrie gave a little smirk. "That won't be a problem. So Beckett goes crying to Captain Taylor and demands men to track down an escaped prisoner...do you know how many escaped prisoners are running around right now? Taylor will flick him on the hand and tell him to sort this out himself."

"With Mercer around, sorting this out won't be too difficult," Rachel muttered.

"Especially if we sit like hens and discuss every possibility under the bloody sun," Lorrie shot back. She captured Rachel in an intense gaze. "Now here's what you must do."

* * *

A minute later, the door was closing behind Rachel's resolute back. Lorrie let out a breath and looked at Jack. He looked at her groggily. "That dress is-"

She shushed him sharply. Then she cocked her head tensely. Footsteps, quite a few of them, were approaching.

"They need caskets for the dead," Jack said flatly.

"And here's a nice supply," Lorrie responded just as flatly, flipping a hand at the towers of caskets all around. Their eyes met.

_Oh, no_.

* * *

For Rachel and Lady Rowe's maid, it was dislike at first sight. The maid looked down her nose. Rachel, who had just walked through a resplendent part of the fort she had never visited, tried to look defiant.

"Lady Rowe has sent me to fetch her largest chest," she said unsteadily. "Empty."

"Really. Well, you won't be able to carry it yourself."

"H-Henry's supposed to help me," Rachel said.

The maid looked at her blankly. Rachel dug her nails into her palms and tried not to panic. What if Henry didn't exist?

"I'll have Henry bring it out," the maid said softly, amusement at Rachel's huge eyes making dimples in her cheeks. Rachel was irritated but too unnerved to show it. The maid closed the door in her face.

Rachel took a deep breath and scanned the luxurious hall behind her. Wide, carpeted, with paintings and tables and flowers, this was another planet. Rachel still wasn't sure she could breathe the air.

When the door opened, Rachel jumped. A head of curly black hair topped a dark-skinned, muscular man in his mid-twenties. Clad in simple blue breeches, a white shirt, and a blue waistcoat, he had a sea chest big enough for two dogs perched effortlessly on one shoulder. The smile he shot her was polite, and once he was out the door, he kept walking. Rachel scurried to catch up.

"Where are we going?" Henry asked as they turned a corner. He had a deep voice.

"Out of the fortress, around the bend in the road, and up a small lane to an abandoned guard house. It's half-burnt down. They'll meet us behind it. If anyone asks, we're taking some of Lady Rowe's things to the _Formidable_."

They turned a corner and went down a flight of stairs to ground level. Henry glanced at her and said with a wink, "If you're to accompany me, you'd better find something to carry."

"Oh." Panicky, Rachel glanced around, and then snatched a runner from a decorative table, sliding it out from under a vase. On the wall in front of her, an obscure naval officer glared from a piece of canvas. She spared one nervous glance for the severe painting, and then ran to catch up with Henry, who was opening a door. Sunlight poured in, and smoke-smell.

Rachel stuck close to Henry all the way across the courtyard. She kept a constant watch all around, afraid that her father was looking for her. But then they approached the gate. Rachel stopped dead in her tracks, staring at a tall, familiar figure: Lawrence. He was in the gateway, talking to a woman and her young son. Other Marines stood around, rigid and alert.

Henry walked a few steps before he noticed he was alone. He turned. "Coming?"

Rachel tried to weigh everything properly. She might be able to bluff through...Lawrence might tell her father...

Henry shrugged and kept walking. With a muffled groan, Rachel scurried up beside him. They reached the gate together, where a blond Marine asked them to stop. "Where are you headed?"

"The _Formidable_," Henry said. "Lady Rowe's having her things moved out."

"Rachel?" Lawrence came up, puzzled. "What's this?"

Henry repeated himself.

Lawrence's puzzlement didn't diminish. In fact, he started to wear his flat-eyed look. "Rachel isn't a servant of Lady Rowe's."

"No, but they need all the help they can get," Rachel bravely spoke up. "Father thought it would be safer for me to spend time outside of the fortress, especially because of the explosion. I want to be busy."

Lawrence cocked his head ever so slightly, his eyes boring into hers. "Fine, then. We just need to see into the chest."

"Lieutenant, unless you want Lady Rowe's lingerie blowing all over the hillside, this chest had better stay closed."

Lawrence's eyes widened at Rachel's frank words, as nearby Marines grinned and murmured among themselves. Lawrence looked to the blond Marine, who was blushing up to his eyebrows. They conferred quietly.

"We can let this one go," Lawrence finally said. "I know Rachel. She's trustworthy."

Rachel's conscience angrily handed her a one-way ticket that said, _This is Your Guilt Trip._ _Have a fidgety time_.

Numbly, she took the ticket and followed Henry down the dirt road.

* * *

Lorrie was a special lady. You could tell by the fact that she carried enough money for formidable bribes at all times. Now, most of that money clinked in the pockets of five Marines who had loosely nailed a casket lid over Jack's face and were were rushing said casket up a last flight of stairs. They came to the top and burst through a door into the tiny tack room. The stables.

"Take a breather, lads," a lieutenant gasped. They half-caught their breath and then, sweating, they silently maneuvered through the small room and emerged in the wide corridor of stall doors. Lorrie stood at the far end, beckoning. She led them to the shaded entrance to the stables, where a farmer and his wagon sat waiting. The farmer slouched at the head of the wagon gave them one bored glance as they came up. The two stable hands who were mucking stalls didn't even lift their heads. Clearly, everyone and Lorrie's purse had had a conversation as well.

The Marines grunted as they shoved the casket into the low bed of the wagon. With the farmer's help, Lorrie pulled the casket to the front of the bed and arranged half-empty crates, sacks, and barrels to hide it.

"We must leave before we're seen," the lieutenant pleaded. Lorrie flicked a hand at him and they hastened back into the stables, headed for the lower levels and empty caskets.

Lorrie climbed up beside the farmer, who clucked to his sturdy horse. As the the wagon rattled into the sunlight, Lorrie's eyes scanned the courtyard. Then her eyes flicked up to the battlements and fixed on the rigid figure of her father. He was looking over the courtyard. If he noticed the farm girl who stared at him for an instant, he didn't show it.

They were stopped at the gate. The farmer complained to the Marines that he'd hardly sold half his produce before the _blasted blast_ went off, and now no one cared about butternut squash and tough green beans. Lorrie sat next to the farmer and made eyes at every male in sight. She focused on a blond-haired Marine that seemed to be in charge. He warmed under her attention, hardly listening to the farmer at all.

However, the Marine beside the blond one, a bloke with dark hair and gray eyes, was less pliant. He said something sympathetic to the farmer, and then circled toward the back of the wagon. Lorrie quickly climbed over the seat and into the bed of the wagon. "Did you know that if you stick green beans under your lip like this," she slid one bean in place, "and this, you look like a vampire?" She grinned at the Marine, giggling wildly. He jerked back a little at the sight.

When the blond Marine put a hand on the side of the wagon, Lorrie lunged as if to bite, barking hoarsely. The blond Marine flinched back and exchanged a perturbed glance with his mate.

"Watch when I push this tomato onto my nose!" Lorrie squealed.

"Have a safe journey home," the Marines told the unfortunate farmer and his crazy daughter, and watched them go.

* * *

"I have a splinter."

That was the first thing Jack said when Henry finally pried the lid off his casket. Jack held up a finger.

"Come on you dewberry," Lorrie muttered tensely.

In the shadow of the burnt-out guard house, she, Rachel, and Henry helped Jack out of the casket and into the trunk. On Henry's shoulder, the trunk had looked big. When Jack got into it however, it became quite small. Jack confirmed this verbally and vehemently as he curled up inside. Lorrie just patted his head unsympathetically and said she hoped he didn't have to use a privy any time soon.

"Haven't used one fer days; why start now?" was Jack's unreassuring response.

The lid slammed and the latches clicked. Henry, with strength that made Rachel's mouth drop open, heaved the trunk onto his back and started off toward the main road. Rachel moved to follow, but Lorrie grabbed her arm.

"You can't. You have to go back," Lorrie said. "It's bad you came this far, with Henry."

"You didn't tell me not to," Rachel said defensively.

"Rachel. I know. I'm sorry." Lorrie put her hands on Rachel's shoulders. "Cutler and Mercer aren't stupid. In a few hours, they'll be scouring the fortress and the docks, and they may find out that you left the fortress in the company of a servant with a man-sized trunk."

Rachel's eyes widened.

"They'll come after you," Lorrie said. "Now. If you come with me and are seen at the docks, it will make it even worse. You need to get back into the fortress and hope that those monsters don't suspect you."

"Hope they don't suspect me?" Rachel's voice was squeaky.

"If they do, is there someone who can help you?"

"My father, maybe...Lawrence..."

"Lawrence?"

"He's a lieutenant. He was at the gate."

"Brown hair? Gray eyes?"

Rachel nodded. Lorrie smiled. "He wouldn't flirt. I knew he was taken. My congratulations."

"He's not mine!" Rachel exclaimed.

"Do amend that," Lorrie winked. "Stay with your father, and know where Lawrence is if you can. If there's trouble, they can protect you. I will also put in a word with Captain Taylor. You'll be fine."

Rachel nodded, and kept nodding. Lorrie squeezed her shoulders. "Couldn't've done it without you, missy." Then she turned and, lifting up her skirts, ran after Henry.

Rachel leaned against a blackened post and put her face in her hands.

* * *

Beckett took a wrong turn somewhere. The air became smokier and smokier and he knew that he was headed straight for the explosion site. But the escaped prisoner was still coming, whirling his hot pokers like scythes, so fast that Mercer was forced to run on Beckett's heels.

Rubble spotted the floor. Pained cries could be heard between their pursuer's howls. Suddenly, they came around a corner and there it was: a hole in Brimstone's gut. Two levels of prison cells formed the walls of the hole. A massive mountain of rubble was crawling with Marines who splashed water on the last little flames. Sun flooded the opening, and blue sky was above.

Beckett and Mercer ran straight to the now-staring Marines. "Shoot him, shoot him!" Beckett cried.

Mercer grabbed a sidearm right off the belt of a surprised Marine. He whirled, cocking the weapon, and then stopped.

The insane prisoner's glowing brands fell to the ground with clangs. He stood utterly still, head thrown back to greet the sun that washed over him. He began to lift his palms toward the sky, joyful tears streaming from his eyes.

Mercer pulled the trigger.

* * *

Ignoring what he was sure had been a gunshot, Admiral Rowe strode to meet his daughter as she climbed out of the carriage donated for her use. Henry helped her. Dressed in white muslin sprinkled with yellow and blue flowers, her hair loose, she looked fresh and happy. And confused.

"How was your picnic?" the Admiral asked.

"Delightful...what has happened?" she demanded tremulously.

He took her delicate, gloved hands. "A huge explosion in the underlevels. I've decided that it's not safe for you to be here. You leave on the _Formidable_ tomorrow morning."

She pouted. "But this is so thrilling! And why must I go when you stay?"

"Because if you're blown up by a second explosion, many people will be sad."

"More than if _you_ were hurt? Don't say things like that."

"People will be sad including _me_." Rowe noticed and dismissed a bit of flour on her arm. "I need you safe. Once this is resolved, I'll follow you back to London. You're not afraid of traveling alone?"

"Was I ever?" she smiled at him, then looked worriedly at the explosion site. "This is so distressing. So tiring. I must get inside and rest."

Admiral Rowe watched her go, followed solicitously by Henry. He nodded to himself. Good decision.

Yes, indeed.

**Thanks for reading!**


	17. Calm Before the Storm

**A/N:** Thank you to my lovely reviewers! You are so kind! And JaxLass, if you're still reading, I have to give you credit for Jack's talking to the rats in this chapter... thank you for the idea!

Disclaimer: Guess what I'm going to do with all the angry 2-D characters below me? I'm going to...Parlay! Amazing! Not like POTC at all, which I don't own!

* * *

**Chapter 17**

The next morning, rainclouds marched along the flat gray palette of the sky, mist snaked over St. Kitts' hills from the sea, and the _Extremely Formidable _was readied to exit with an extremely precious cargo.

Admiral Rowe saw his pale daughter off with a fond embrace, but neither shed tears. This caused the general audience to marvel at their dignity. They marveled even more when Lady Rowe deliberately stepped over a horrendous knot in the gangplank. Almost every salty sailor had tripped over it while carrying some trunk or barrel aboard, and a group of little children had assembled to enjoy the curses and the panic when a burden plummeted to the waves. Now they sighed in disappointment.

A tiny breeze and palm fronds worked in tandem to get drips of water down audience members' necks.

Captain Hemmings solemnly shook the hands of Admiral Rowe and Captain Taylor before stepping aboard. Minutes later, the untethered _Formidable_ slumped out of the bay, towed by two rowboats. Sailors gradually let down the _Formidable_'s sails, which hung like limp laundry, some sections soaked and others dry.

Lady Rowe stood wistfully at the stern, dark hair curling in the dampness, hands folded on the drippy rail. Her maid stood a few paces back, making eyes at the helmsman.

Onshore, the audience stood regretfully, trying to ignore the fact that the entire earthworm population had decided to try sunbathing on the dock, just when it got rainy.

Beckett and Mercer were not among them. ('_Them_' being the audience, not the worms.)

* * *

Beckett and Mercer were having a very bad day. Yesterday had been impolitic and inconvenient and generally icky. Today was abysmal and ineffable and generally sticky (because of the moist weather).

Jack had disappeared. Beckett's wig wanted to sproing in multiple directions for joy at the rain. Mercer had a wet rear from sitting on a chair with a puddle in the seat. And Lady Rowe had left without saying goodbye to Beckett. This made Beckett sad inside, and _that_ put him in an appalling temper. He truly became a diminutive dragon, stalking around Brimstone dressed in a rust-red, brooding coat and breeches. He set Mercer loose and that human bloodhound was everywhere at once with threats and demands.

Since cleanup had to continue in the inclement conditions, everyone was surly.

* * *

Assigned to a new kitchen, Rachel's father was working hard to maintain the fortress's spectacular dungeon cuisine. Unwilling to attend her lessons, Rachel was left at home above the stables with Sir Furry. She had spent the morning watching the dead in the courtyard be nailed into caskets and shipped out in wagon loads. Now she flew from a side door, skirts in white knuckled fists, eyes wide with fear. Only minutes earlier, she'd spotted Mercer stalking toward the stables, eyes lifted toward her window. She had to get to her father.

She ran across the courtyard. She tried not to look as she ran past the Marines nailing up caskets, but she couldn't help herself. And that was why she reeled to a stop.

In casket at the very end of the line, waiting for a lid, lay Insane Rob. His rags and stringy hair were plastered to his blue-white skin, revealing an emaciated body. Barely breathing, rain dripping down her cheeks, Rachel jerkily knelt down next to the casket, eyes burning with tears. She could see a bloodstain on his chest. The rain had washed much of the grime off him, leaving gray puddles beneath him. His eyes, cloudy green, were open, crinkled as if caught mid-smile. He looked like he could be smiling...

Raindrops mixing with tears, Rachel pulled the green ribbon from her hair and gently, gently laid it over the bloodstain. It lay there, a vivid line crossing out his injury like a teacher's correction. The rain plastered it down drop by drop.

Shaking, Rachel stood and stumbled the rest of the way across the courtyard and, dripping wet, hurried into the west wing and headed down, down down.

"Rachel!" he father exclaimed when she arrived, pale and wet in his new kitchen. "What are you thinking, gong through the rain like that?"

"Please, I just need to be with you," Rachel said through chattering teeth. His face softened. Minutes later she was perched on a barrel with a cloth around her shoulders, warmed by the small fire under a boiling pot. Crying surreptitiously, she wondered why Sparrow had flirted with her like she was a woman, for she had never felt so child-like and vulnerable in her entire life.

She stayed in her father's kitchen the entire day, leaving only to fetch Sir Furry for company. On this errand she didn't see Beckett or Mercer. She slowly relaxed.

* * *

"The first boat I ever had was a dresser drawer. A little bouncy but strangely satisfying, 'cept for the fact it didn't have a sail. Now I'm sure you were born on this tub so y'can't understand how important that little drawer was to me. 'Course, I can't remember what I named it...ah, we've company, gentlemen."

Bemused, Lorrie lifted her lantern higher as she slipped around a twelve-foot tower of crates and found Jack Sparrow perched at his leisure on her sea chest. He smiled his smile at her, taking in her simple dress and apron. She looked around the tiny space in this maze of cargo that was the _Formidable_'s deepest hold. No one. "Who're you talking to? And how did you get out of the chest by yourself?"

"I climbed out," Jack said. "And I was talking to the rats."

"I'm sure it's lovely to converse with your relatives once again," Lorrie said dryly as she set the lantern beside him on the chest.

The corners of Jack's mouth went down. "You think you're a wit, don't you?"

"I think it's time to wash your wrist, for a start."

'''For a start'? Sounds promising."

She set down two pails. One was empty. The other had water and rags in it. "How does the wrist feel?" She sat down beside him and took his hand. It was limp, heavy, and warm. She lay on her leg and delicately began to undo the wrappings on his wrist.

"Right now, it feels apprehensive," Jack said, "but it likes you better'n me so it's happy, too. Thanks for asking, it says."

"That fever really has effected you." Lorrie pulled the bandage off and inspected the scabs. "This is doing quite well indeed." She looked at Jack, who was looking in the opposite direction. She smiled. "Can't bear to look, you big bloke you?"

"Don't mock me, love," he said to a crate. "You're not the one with the brand."

"I'll try not to gloat," Lorrie said graciously. Jack's lips twitched disgustedly, but he still did not turn. He hissed when she swabbed his healing skin, but made no more sound as she wrapped his wrist in fresh bandaging from her apron pocket. He wouldn't lift his hand from her leg and she had to put it back in his floury lap for him.

"Now. The water in this pail is for drinking," she stood briskly, "and you should drink as much as you can. The empty pail is your chamber pot. I'll bring some blankets for you later."

"Where are you taking me?" Jack slouched back, fingering the knot she'd made in his bandaging.

"Well, that depends. I know we will stop at Kingston before heading across the Atlantic. You can sneak off at Kingston or stay on, in which case you will end up in London."

"Too many people know me in London," Jack said. "I was just recently there, you know."

"Yes I know," she said softly, half turned away.

"The explosion came off rather well, didn't it?" Jack said.

She faced him now with a smile. "Oh yes. It was worth wearing that dreadful guard uniform."

"Y'have me agreement. Breeches never suited anyone so...delightfully."

Lorrie narrowed her eyes at him briefly. "When I came into your room on fake duty, you were already babbling about how combustible flour is. And the flour worked extremely well - you should have seen the size of the hole it blew. How did you know it would work?"

"Me Da told me in a dream. An' he's never been wrong."

"Right." Lorrie used every inch of her high London accent to mock the word. "Ah, well."

Jack's eyes were piercing and black in the lantern light. "I'm glad you came."

"I'm glad you freed those slaves, though it's caused you such pain. I despise the _trade of the century_ as Father's snobby friends called it. Though Father will never know."

"I notice you ruined dear Beckie's day, too."

"All the better," Lorrie muttered.

Jack smirked slowly. "How long till Kingston?"

"We'll weigh anchor at nightfall...seven days from now. If you wish to leave, I'll take you ashore in the chest, saying it's a gift for a friend. I know I have a friend in Kingston..."

"Seven days. That doesn't give us much time. Com'ere, Lady Lorrie."

The quiet allure in his invitation made her swallow. But she drew herself up. "Not now, Jack."

"You had time in London, an' circumstances were far worse."

"This isn't London, Jack. And you're too dangerous."

"Why, thank you."

"And in London, you'd just feasted on sweets. You probably taste like a pig sty right now."

His soft expression soured. She smiled coyly and waved as she left him alone with the lantern and the rats. "Until tonight, Jack."

* * *

When evening fell, Rachel was walking toward the stables and saw Lawrence watching her from his post nearby. She scampered to him.

He looked cold. His nose was red, and water was dripping off his hat. He gave her a confused, worried look. "Miss Hanley. You'll catch your death."

She laughed incredulously. "What about you? How long have you been out here?"

He sighed. "Nearly the whole day. But we have hot cider in the barracks. And everyone's in a better mood now that Agent Beckett and his monster are gone."

"Gone?" Rachel repeated, eyes widening.

"Aye. They left midday. In quite a hurry, too...all the better. Rachel? Where are you going?"

She shouted over her shoulder, "I have to pray!"

**Thank you so much for reading!**

* * *

"The early adventures of a young Hector Barbossa. About the 13 yr old boy who leaves home for the open sea, and the people and the events that shape his future as he becomes a ruthless and notorious pirate." This sound intriguing? You bet it does! Read **Nytd**'s _Naught But a Humble Pirate._ She also has some wonderful Harry Potter fics for all you Harry Potter fans out there.

With the new movie out, how can you not read **pokerfacejones**'s _Indiana Jones and the Lost City..."_Indiana Jones. Explorer, teacher, genious. Can he pull through another amazing adventure and rescue his previous love, along side his son?"

* * *


	18. Yep, the Storm

**A/N:** I belatedly researched how long it would take to go from St. Kitts to Kingston and discovered it was around seven days! The first section of this chapter takes care of that, and I made a change in the previous chapter. Sorry this was a day late, and thank you so much to all you wonderful reviewers, especially Nytd and Dizzles the Dizzy!

Disclaimer: Well, we've been talking and trying to figure out how we could divide Disney between like 10,000 characters. Not sure how to do that yet...I don't own POTC.

* * *

**Chapter 18**

Hold onto your hats, I'm going to push the fast forward button. We're going to jump to seven days from now, skimming over the voyage to Kingston. You may ask, Won't we miss lots of fun Jack-Lorrie time? Will we feel nauseous after being wrenched forward a week? What if some of the rats die?

My answer is: Lorrie will visit Jack a grand total of three brief times over the seven days, mostly because she needs to be present as Lady Rowe, and not hiding in the hold with a pirate who hasn't washed in at least a month.

No, you won't feel nauseous...but only if you buy our Magic Lozenge, with its incredible stomach-calming qualities, all yours for 10.99. We'll also throw in three barf bags if you call now.

If the rats die, don't worry. They'll show up in the stew that evening and therefore still be useful to mankind.

* * *

Kingston, Jamaica at sunset was a bustling, hazy city; a city floating in a gold cloud. The _Extremely Formidable_ hung shyly back in the harbor, sending out a single longboat with two well-dressed passengers.

Lorrie was helped from a longboat just as the lamplighters came out onto the streets. Henry accompanied her, hefting her sea chest. The chest was strapped to the back of a carriage whose driver Lorrie acknowledged by name. Henry helped Lorrie into the carriage and then climbed onto the back like a proper footman. They left the docks and traced the waterfront, threading their way past the slums and climbing toward a cliff top neighborhood of elegant, fenced-in mansions. Quiet was falling with the darkness, and the lamps on the carriage seemed as brash as the clatter of the horse.

Lorrie took a deep breath and tried to relax. This wasn't the first time she'd taken a risk and it wouldn't be the last.

She heard a faint shout, and then the driver's "Whoa..." The carriage slowed. She stuck her head out the window and saw multiple soldiers in bright red uniforms standing in a blockade across the road.

She cursed and pulled back in.

A soldier came to her window, toting a lantern. He removed his hat. She wrung her hands at him "What is the meaning of this?"

"Colonel Quaid at yer service, m'lady. I'm sorry for the inconvenience," he said in a Cockney accent, "but we've been instructed by the East India Trading Company to hold you here."

The color drained from her cheeks. "'Hold us here'? I don't understand," she sputtered. "I've done nothing wrong and the hour is late!"

"We've reason to believe you 'ave a stowaway, m'lady," Colonel Quaid said grimly.

"Whatever are you talking about?" Lorrie's incredulity turned to irritation. "Of all the ridiculous things!" She clasped the window sill and leaned forward. "You had better hope your superiors get here quickly because I will not stand for this nonsense!"

"They're only minutes away," Colonel Quaid said humbly.

Lorrie eyed him. Brown eyes, weathered face. The type of man who would be agreeable to the point of groveling, and yet never give way. "If I'm to wait here, I don't want to spend the time looking at you or any of your lackeys!" She sat back so roughly the carriage swayed. "Leave me alone!"

"We've been ordered to search the carriage," the Colonel said even more humbly.

Lorrie sat forward again like a shot. "What?"

Suddenly, Henry appeared at the opposite window, making Colonel Quaid stiffen. "Is everything all right, miss?"

She looked over her shoulder at him. Half his face was lit red by the sunset. "Yes, but I would welcome your company."

Henry opened the door. Lorrie turned back to Colonel Quaid. "Fine, search if you must. Someone will pay for this."

He nodded, touching his forehead respectfully. Henry sat down beside Lorrie and closed the door.

Lorrie hit the roof with her fists, and then huddled down out of sight. "Hyaaa!" the driver howled, cracking his whip, and the carriage lurched into flight.

Lorrie heard the surprised shouts of the soldiers and then dreaded gunshots. She waited for the carriage to tumble out of control, but it thundered out of the neighborhood into a deteriorating road that gradually plunged into a heavily overgrown valley. Inside, Henry and Lorrie held onto the carriage and each other.

Then, a gunshot. The horse whinnied and lunged sideways, bringing the carriage around on two wheels. And then the carriage slammed horizontal again and everything was still except for the horse's wild snorting.

Lorrie and Henry breathlessly sat up. Lorrie reached for the door, but Henry touched her hand and got out first. The instant Henry's feet touched the ground, another gunshot rang and he spun and fell. Lorrie gave a shriek and shrank back long enough to pull out a small pistol from under her skirt.

A light fell over her and she brought the pistol up with a snarl, and then froze.

Beckett lifted a lantern, a surprised look on his face. "M'lady?"

She lowered the pistol. "Beckett." She brushed past him and climbed out. She looked to the left, and there was Mercer, standing holding the horse's bridle in one hand, a pistol in the other. The driver lay dead in the ditch. Rage boiled up her throat but then Henry groaned, and she knelt next to him. In the darkness, she could barely make out his pale face. "Where?" She took his hand.

"Right sholder, m'lady," he grated. "I've had far worse."

Empty hands shaking with anger, Lorrie stood and faced Beckett and Mercer. "What's going on?"

"We came to wait here on Mercer's hunch that you would break through our blockade," Beckett said quietly, stepping close. "He was right, as always. Why?"

"Why did you shoot my footman and driver?" Lorrie shrilled back.

"Because you broke through the blockade. I thought perhaps they were holding you hostage. Perhaps they conspired to break through, because I cannot believe that you would disobey the law like that."

"You're-" Lorrie bit back denial that they would ever take her hostage and studied his face. In the light of the lantern, it was almost trusting...but it was mostly blank. She blinked innocently. "Why was there a blockade?"

"Because we have reason to believe that Jack Sparrow was smuggled out of Brimstone Fortress in the very chest behind me. Mercer?"

Mercer stashed his pistol and stepped up to the chest where it was still strapped to the carriage. The horse began to graze.

"I can't believe you're worried about a stupid chest when my footman lies bleeding on the ground!" Lorrie exploded. "You truly are as heartless as they say!"

Beckett's face hardened. "And _you_? I am finding it hard to believe that you're as harmless as I've been led to believe."

She started forward; he blocked her. She watched, white-faced, as Mercer undid the latches and pulled the lid up. "Oi, where's the driver?" came an unmistakable voice from inside the chest. "I'm going t'kill him. Who're you?"

Lorrie closed her eyes. Mercer reached in and pulled Jack Sparrow out of the chest. The pirate fell to the ground, held up by Mercer's grip on his arm, and looked around. "I've gotta get better friends," he mumbled.

Beckett rounded on Lorrie, mouth set and dangerous. "Tell me you had no hand in this."

For a moment, she was puzzled at the look in his eyes. The hazel orbs were almost pleading in the lamplight. But she could not be sure. She looked beyond Beckett to Mercer, who gazed at her knowingly. A warm breeze hissed through the lonely trees and a hundred insects buzzed.

Then Mercer shoved Jack to the ground and stomped a foot onto his chest. The air exploded from Jack's lungs, and as Lorrie watched, Beckett smirked.

She drew herself up, up, up, fists clenched at her sides. "Mercer is right. The only hand in this is mine. And if you think that a little EITC agent and his pet dog can stop me, you've got a sad lesson to learn!"

For a moment, Beckett's eyes were wide. Then they iced over and he turned his smirk on her. "Oh, I don't think so. Now sit next to your dear footman." She didn't move. "Now!"

"Don't raise...your voice to a lady!" Henry suddenly gasped. A pistol was cocked. And then it was Lorrie's turn to smirk as she took a step to the left, revealing Henry aiming her tiny pistol at Beckett's head. "Don't move," the wounded man said.

Beckett looked to Mercer, just as Mercer aimed his primed pistol at Lorrie's head. "I have a better idea," Beckett said. "You drop that toy before Mercer blows a hole in your beautiful mistress."

Entire body trembling, Henry looked to a very pale Lorrie. She gave a tiny nod. He relaxed, his eyes rolling back in his head as his arm dropped and he fell unconscious.

Beckett took one step and scooped up the pistol. He inspected it, leaving it cocked, and turned to Lorrie. She raised her chin defiantly.

"We're going to get back into the carriage and return to the _Formidable_," he said evenly, "where you will be confined to quarters until we reach London. Aiding a criminal is a serious offense. As for Jack..." his eyes glittered, "he will not be alive to accompany us, I'm afraid."

"If Jack isn't there when you accuse me of aiding him," Lorrie said, "what are the chances anyone will believe you?"

He smiled. "That will not be a concern, Miss Rowe." He came up to her and stood so close they almost touched. He held the pistol near his waist, aimed at her. "You are going to disappoint many people."

"There's one person I'm happy to have disappointed already," she hissed.

Beckett narrowed his eyes, moved closer. She stiffened, narrowing her eyes right back. He lifted the lantern and looked over her face quickly, intensely, as if trying to memorize it.

"Get in the carriage," he said in a raw voice, and shoved the pistol against her middle to encourage her.

At that moment, he was between Lorrie and Mercer's pistol. And at that moment, Jack Sparrow grabbed Mercer's foot and yanked on it. Mercer staggered. He twisted his foot free. And he pulled the trigger before he knew what he was doing. The bullet whizzed past Beckett's head and made the horse shy with a neigh. Shocked, Mercer dropped the discharged pistol and pulled a fresh one from his belt. Seeing that his master was unhurt, he turned the new firearm on the pirate and-

He froze, staring down the barrel of the pistol Jack had produced out of thin air and was now aiming up at his nose.

"Drop it," Jack growled. Mercer's pistol hit the ground, and Jack snatched it up. He seemed delighted to now have two.

Lorrie's small pistol had also changed hands in the uproar. She now aimed it at Beckett's head.

The foursome stared at each other for a minute, and then Jack climbed to his feet and faced Mercer, who watched him like a cornered wolf. Jack moistened his lips and grimaced at the taste. Then with one drunken motion, he knocked Mercer in the temple- _thunk_. Mercer folded to the ground, unconscious. Jack then turned to Beckett, who was still under Lorrie's guard.

"Giving me this pistol before leaving the _Formidable_'s prob'ly the best thing y'ever did, darlin'," he said to Lorrie as he minced up beside her. They both looked at Beckett, who glared defiantly. Then Jack aimed both his pistols at Beckett, too, with an absurdly pleased expression. Beckett wrinkled his nose - Jack smelled like a compost pile.

They stood there, Jack and Lorrie with their pistols, and Beckett with his lantern. Bugs were beginning to swarm around the lantern's light.

"I assume you're pointing those at me for a purpose," Beckett said face stony. "Do get on with it."

"Y'mean shoot you?" Jack said. "Well, that's not really what we want t'do. We're just waiting till you break down an' cry."

Beckett shot him a black look.

"Or...you tell us what your favorite flower is!" Jack said brightly, swaying a little.

"Jack," Lorrie muttered.

"So we can put th'flower on his grave," Jack said indignantly. "Just trying t'be polite."

Beckett's eyes flicked between them with growing desperation. "Damn you, Sparrow, and your games." He swallowed and looked down, trying to compose himself.

"Don't leave Lorrie out," Jack said. "Far as I'm concerned, she's the Mistress of All Games."

"Oh, thank you Jack," Lorrie said with a smile.

"I think you're stalling because you don't know what to do," Beckett rallied, lifting his chin.

"I think Beckie likes lilies of the valley," Jack said. "So small'n white and always smelling perfect."

Lorrie snorted. "Enough fooling around. He's your nemesis. Do we tie him up or kill him?"

Jack stuck one pistol in his belt and considered. Night had fallen completely and the lantern brought out the dark circles under his eyes. Then he looked at Beckett with a wicked grin.

* * *

Ten minutes later, Lorrie was tying an unconscious Mercer's hands to his ankles with a leather rein. She had to reach up to do so because Mercer was draped over the gnarled arm of a kwihi tree, perhaps eight feet off the ground. The carriage sat right next to her, tilted in the rough underbrush. It had been difficult to bring it deep into the forest, but the horse had a patient disposition and hadn't given much trouble. Lorrie had climbed atop the carriage, dragging Mercer, before draping him over the branch. Her hair was coming down, but she was smiling.

Jack, far too weak to help, held the lantern and made sure Beckett stood with his back to the kwihi's trunk. The rope that had bound the sea chest to the carriage lay at his feet. "Start thinkin' of strategies, mate," Jack said. "Yer crony's going to need all the help he can get."

Beckett had lost his wig. Pale, he didn't reply. He stared at Mercer, tied in a loop around a branch with huge foliage at its end. Strategies? There was no way for Mercer to slide off. He was good and trapped, and Beckett's own fate...a bug landed on his neck and he slapped it.

Lorrie finished knotting the rein with a flourish and then walked up to Jack, wiping her forehead.

"Beautiful, Lady Lorrie," Jack said. "This's a story everyone'll love to hear."

"'Everyone?'" Beckett scrutinized Lorrie. "How many are you? What are you?"

She looked at him. "I'm a woman far too fond of getting her own way."

"Take the carriage back to the road, Lorrie," Jack said quietly. "I'll join you."

Her mouth twitched grimly as she turned away. Jack waited as she coaxed the horse around, and then the carriage was gone with its lanterns and it was only Jack and Beckett standing in a small circle of light.

They met each other's eyes. Beckett raised his eyebrows impatiently: _Get on with it._

Jack bent to pick up the rope and almost died. Beckett had produced a dagger and extended it, and Jack almost leaned right into it and slit his own throat. He froze, and then straightened gingerly. Beckett's dagger followed, coming to rest just below his Adam's apple.

"Drop the pistol, you mangy rat," he spat.

Jack did as he was told.

"You can't win, Jack," Beckett said, "though you _have_ been a worthy adversary. I wouldn't have expected a common flea-bitten dog to manage that."

"I try," Jack gulped.

"But you've been losing from the beginning. I sank your ship. I branded you. And now, I'm going to kill you."

"Your cuffs'll get bloody," Jack whispered.

"I do have more than one coat, Jack," Beckett smiled, and then turned grim. "I will never offer you an escape route via my emotions again. You taught me well and I thank you."

"Well, there's one thing I forgot to teach you."

"And what's that?"

"Not to gloat when y'feel victorious."

"Sorry if I fault you for hypocrisy," Beckett sneered.

"Being lower life forms, pirates're supposed to gloat," Jack told him, and then ducked back, seizing Beckett's wrist before the agent could slash at him. Going on the offensive, Jack shoved Beckett hard, pinning him to the tree trunk. The knife was between them, they grabbed it with both hands, straining, shaking. Jack managed to get the dagger pointed at Beckett, and Beckett tried to knee him. Jack dodged, and to keep the knife away, ducked to the right and yanked, setting Beckett off-balance. Then Jack kneed him twice in the belly. Beckett choked, curling, and Jack pried the knife out of his hand just before he tumbled to the ground.

Gasping for breath on his side, Beckett almost moved, but Jack stooped and put the dagger where he could see it. He went still.

"You're right about me losing from the beginning," Jack panted. "You did sink my ship. You did brand me. But y'forgot it doesn't matter who's winning or losing in the beginning - it's the end what counts." He grabbed Beckett's short hair and pulled his face around. Beckett stared up at him, eyes wide, paralyzed.

Jack looked at his bound wrist. "Me last lesson t'you - how it feels to be marked." Baring his teeth, he slashed an X on the side of Beckett's head, shearing away hair and leaving two oozing lines.

Beckett barely flinched, breathing in quickly.

"I know you'll cover that wif a wig," Jack said, hurling the dagger into the brush. "But they'll still be there, underneath." He leaned his face close to Beckett's, and once again, green-gold eyes stared into chocolate brown. "You're a marked man, Cutler. An' I never want to see you again."

He stood mechanically and took up the lantern. The last Beckett saw of him was a haggard, pale face with a grim, tight mouth and black, black eyes.

Then Jack shuffled off, taking the light with him.

Utter, silent darkness fell like a pall.

**Please tell me if this was really confusing...TBC!**

* * *

Check out Dizzles the Dizzy's _Come Sail Away_. This is an extremely humorous look into Jack's first stay at the rumrunner's island and will brighten your day!


	19. When the Sun Comes Back

**A/N:** Thank you so much to TavyBeckettFan, Nytd, LostWitch5, Dizzles the Dizzy, Rokhal, kweenofmagic, and Manwathiel for your gorgeous, wonderful reviews! I couldn't do this without you!

Disclaimer: Well here's the extremely anticlimatic decision we came to: Disney does belong to every single Disney character, animated or no, main part or no. Then we found out that dividing Disney between 2 million characters gives everyone about a sliver. Now we're having s'mores and they're wondering why they got so upset, since it isn't worth it. I don't own POTC!

* * *

**Chapter 19**

The sun rose on an extremely horrified _Extremely Formidable_. For that very night, Miss Rowe and her loyal man Henry had been attacked by robbers! Henry had taken a bullet to the arm and had barely made it back to the ship. Miss Rowe had had to drive the carriage herself. She had driven up to the dock in dawn's first light, pale and dirty and exhausted.

Now it was noon. Henry was down in the infirmary and Miss Rowe, looking too chipper for those enjoying the drama of the situation, was reading a note that had arrived mid-morning. It was from Brimstone Fortress, written by her father.

He had received news of urgent business in London right after the _Formidable _had vanished on the horizon, and he had decided to leave Brimstone immediately. His ship, the _Blasting Horn_, was not headed for England, but the captain had agreed to stop at Kingston. Admiral Rowe had requested that the _Formidable _wait for him. Then he would rejoin his daughter and they would sail for England together. He would each Kingston in two days.

Miss Rowe sighed and supposed that she would stay on her friend Miss Jenkin's sugarcane plantation - she certainly wouldn't be spending two days on a docked ship. She sent off Harvey, another of her many servants, to rent a small dory as she wanted to sail the small distance north to the plantation instead of riding in a carriage. The night before had "put her quite off traveling by land." Everyone nodded sympathetically. Poor dear.

Late afternoon, a simply-dressed Miss Rowe climbed into the dory Harvey had obediently procured. Her blond maid Jenny followed and sat beside a small chest of necessities. The captain himself cast them off, saying he would send word when the _Blasting Horn_ had blasted into the harbor.

Miss Rowe waved. Jenny put a hand on the chest. Harvey let down the dory's small sail.

Watching sailors leaned on the _Formidable_'s rail and speculated on how damaged Harvey would be when _he_ returned. _Women - they're so impetuous. And it's us blokes wot pay the price._

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The sun was setting and Jack was trying to get a coconut fiber free of his teeth. He'd always hated coconuts. First you had to practically kill yourself to get them open. This violent process never failed to send half the coconut milk splashing to the ground. This meant that there was just enough milk left to leave you thirsty as you scraped the flesh out of the shell. This flesh took at least two hours to masticate, if you wanted to do it thoroughly, and then it gave you indigestion.

Aye, Jack _really _hated coconuts.

A small vessel came around the jut of gnarly rock that sheltered his turquoise lagoon. Jack squinted, making out three passengers. When the dory rasped up onto the sand, Jack stood back and let Harvey jump out and pull it up further. He watched as Harvey helped Lady Rowe out, and then Jenny.

Lady Rowe came up to him, holding her plain blue skirts out of the sand. "You're always such a gentleman, Jack."

"Your lad's strong enough himself," Jack told her rightously. "And b'sides, I'm not wanting t'get saltwater on me wrist again."

"'Again'?" She looked him over excitedly. "This means you bathed! Did you, Jack?"

"In the smallest sense of th'word, yes," Jack mumbled. "Couldn't stand the flour in me trousers anymore."

Lady Rowe smiled, and became Lorrie. "I brought new bandages." She whirled and hurried to where Harvey and Jenny were standing with the chest.

Jack grimaced and hurried after her. "No, Lorrie, don't trouble yerself." When she didn't turn he planted himself, hands on hips, and declared, "I'm in no need of coddling!"

Five minutes later, he was sitting in the sand. She sat above him on a massive hulk of driftwood, briskly wrapping his wrist afresh as he sullenly gazed out over the water. The setting sun had turned it to rippling gold.

Much farther down the beach, Harvey and Jenny had made a small fire and were talking over it.

"Any signs of Beckett?" Jack finally asked.

Lorrie looked down on him. Half her face glowed but the rest was in blue shadow. Her dark hair shimmered with subtle red tones drawn out by the sunset. "Not a peep. And believe me, I have so many people listening, I'll know when he sneezes."

Jack nodded, then looked out at the water again. Finding his wrist released, he touched it then let it rest crooked over one bent knee.

"You should have finished him, Jack," Lorrie said quietly.

He quickly looked up at her. "Remind me never t'get on yer bad side."

The corner of her mouth twitched and she met his eyes. "Jack." She reached down, cupping his cheek and jaw in her palm. He leaned slightly into her hand. "He'll come after you. I've met men like him before, but not one has been this fearsome. You'll regret letting him live. You couldn't even hurt Mercer, and he'll carve you up if he has the chance." She drew back, thoughtful. "I could take care of them, perhaps..."

Jack caught her retreating hand. "D'you have an army of assassins?" he raised an eyebrow. "Lorrie, killing's not the only way to finish someone."

"Do I want to know the story behind that phrase?" she asked.

He shrugged once, eyes dark. "He wasn't moving when I left 'im."

Lorrie sighed. "Well, as I said, he's your nemesis. He won't try to kill _me_."

Jack got to his feet, forcing her to brace herself and half pull him up. Then he sat down heavily beside her. "I suppose y'have the rest of me future planned out."

"Of course," she said crisply. She kicked the chest. "That's for you. It has food, more bandages, and some clothing, in case one of the relics you're wearing simply decides to fall off one day. It also has your hat. Someone found it..."

"Hat! Hat!" Jack leaned down and shoved a folded shirt aside. There, only a little worse for wear, was his glorious tri-cornered brown hat. He took it out and reverently placed it on his head and sighed. "Don't even know when it came off."

Lorrie watched him. "The dory is yours."

"Bought or borrowed?" was the quick response.

"Rented."

"Savvy." The darkness left Jack's face, replaced by an eager radiance as he eyed the small vessel awaiting him. Then he frowned. "What about yerself?"

Lorrie laughed. "I was betting with myself whether you'd ask or not." She shrugged. "It's not a long walk from here to the road, and I have a carriage waiting to take us to my friend's plantation. As you know, I love a stroll in the moonlight." She nudged him with her shoulder.

He grinned, gold teeth and all, and wiggled one eyebrow.

"Hold still," she said, and, frowning with concentration, used a finger to neaten the kohl remaining under his right eye. When she lowered her hand, their faces were mere inches apart, and his liquid brown eyes were gazing meaningfully into hers. Her face softened and she leaned forward-

"Well, that's that," Jack said, and hopped off the driftwood. "Not much daylight left." He marched toward the dory.

Lorrie rolled her eyes, laughed good-naturedly, and marched after him. She stood, arms crossed, waiting as Jack crawled over his new friend, touching her lines and hull and sail.

Finally, when Jack was experimentally raising the sail, she put her hands on her hips. "Jack. Is this the way to repay a woman who saved your life?"

"No," he said frankly, poking at the sail as it swelled with the cool evening breeze. He looked at her with a fierce glint in his eye. "No, this's how I repay the harpy who wouldn't come within a foot of me th'entire time I was stuck in the abysmal hold of a ship."

The barely repressed ire in his voice made her grin. "You're not holding a grudge, are you?"

He poked at the sail again, putting his back to her. "No."

She laughed again. "You don't play the snubbed boy very well, Jack."

"Boy?" He nimbly hopped out of the dory and sauntered to her. "Fine then. I don't see why y'want me to repay you 'cause as a boy, I'd not be able t'dream of touching a glorious, hoity-toity, monstrous woman such as yerself."

"And would that stop you?"

Jack considered, eyes slanted down at her. "No."

As carefully as if he touched an egg shell, he placed a single finger on the hinge of her jaw. Slowly he drew his fingertip along her jaw toward her chin, bringing her face fully up by the time he had her chin between thumb and forefinger.

His shadow half-fell over her face, leaving one of her eyes in the sun. Her eye was blue, with subtle gold highlights.

"Do you know what's amusing, Jack?" she murmured over the _shush...shush_ of the waves.

"What's that, love?" he said vaguely, fathomless eyes flicking over her face and hair.

"This entire time, men have been trying to kill you. And women have been trying to save you."

He met her eyes abruptly. He gave a crooked grin. "I've no idea why."

"I don't, either," she whispered, and then Jack Sparrow kissed Lady Rowe deeply there on the beach, with the wind sighing all around and the sun blazing like a phoenix against the coconut trees and soft sand.

Then he broke the kiss and paused, hand cupping her neck and ear. "While I'm in this generous mood, who was the lass who helped us at Brimstone?"

"Rachel. The cook's daughter." Lorrie blinked up at him, trying to clear her head. "What, Jack?"

He just grinned and pulled her tightly close, kissing her again.

**Thanks for reading!**


	20. Epilogue

**A/N:** This story is dedicated to the reviewers. Without you all, this thing would have died halfway through.

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**Epilogue**

The sun was setting on another empty day. Rachel was pacing a quiet cliff just outside Brimstone, the wind whipping at her skirts and the long grass. Behind her was a graveyard, and the closest grave markers were mere wood. One had ROB crudely carved into it - Rachel's handiwork.

She paused to gaze to the horizon, brow wrinkled. She had taken to pacing in the evening and was afraid that her father would soon notice. But she couldn't help herself, not when she saw Jack Sparrow's dark eyes glazed with death. Even worse, Lorrie's.

Before a sigh could escape her, a call rang out behind her. "Miss!" She turned and saw a plainly dressed man, middle-aged, his grizzled face suggesting he might be a dock worker. She warily let him approach when she saw the folded paper in his hand.

"For you," he held out the paper, "from a mutual friend."

The paper was sealed in blood red wax. Deeply imprinted was a flourished _L._

"Th-thank you." Heart speeding, Rachel took it and watched the man stride away. She gazed at the seal for a moment, then ripped the paper open with shaking hands, breath unsteady. Ravenously, her eyes fastened on the beautifully scrawled handwriting:

_Rachel,_

_I write you from Kingston. In mere hours we will set sail for England. I will miss this vibrant, wonderful part of the world. Be glad you live here._

_I wanted to thank you for your help with my baggage; without your help, I would have been forced to linger in a dangerous situation. You will be happy to know that every piece of baggage has been successfully tended to._

_I wonder if you may help me again in the future, as I have many friends in many places and would be happy to add you to the top of my list. You showed great courage and resourcefulness. Never lose that. You will find an address at the very bottom of this letter. I hope that we may communicate again soon._

_-Lorrie_

_P.S. JS wishes for me to relay this message to you: "If it isn't too much trouble, pull Sir Furry's tail for me. Hard. Really, really hard."_

Next to the message was a neatly drawn sparrow flying before a blazing sun.

Rachel clutched the letter to her heart as her joyful laughter washed over the Rob's grave, surging upward in expanding ripples until it seemed to touch the stars beginning to flash like diamonds in the deepening blue of a peaceful, contented, _savvy_ night.

**Finis!**

**(If anything is confusing, please tell me!) ;)**

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Do Jack and Lorrie have a history? What was Jack talking about in Chapter 6 when he hinted he had dressed up like a debutante and mingled with London's high society? Was it hilarious? Stay tuned for a hopeful oneshot!


	21. Hooray Oneshot!

**A/N**: Hey! I know this is really random but I finally finished the oneshot I promised - if you even remember that! I am so sorry it's taken me this long. Here is a baffling snippet of it - the full version is in my profile. Thank you!

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**A Fox, a Rooster, and a Lady**

He darted through the dancing room and through the first discrete door he encountered. He found himself in a well-lit hallway with stairs at the end. He scuttled up the stairs, catching a talon on a step and slamming face-first into the floor.

Muttering curses, he clambered to his feet in a cloud of feathers. This was another hallway with three imperious doorways. He picked the middle one and congratulated himself when it opened.

He entered the most flowery bedroom he had ever seen.

The massive four-poster bed was carved with tulips and roses and daisies. The bedspread was a garden. The rugs were gardens. The curtains looked like hanging chains of roses. The windows were stained glass flowers.

"Flowers make me sneeze," he said with dismay.

"I'll tell them not to put any on your grave." This voice came from the right, trembling and feminine.

The rooster jumped back with a burbling noise, his wings curled to his chest. "Who're –didn't-you- see!"

The young woman in gorgeous blue gown glared at him. "When flowers bloom in spring."

A very awkward silence fell. The rooster didn't move.

"Pardon?" he finally said.

She reached slowly into her right sleeve. "When. Flowers. Bloom. In. Spring."

"The…little bees sing?" The rooster threw his wings up. "What kind of gibberish is this, woman?

"The fatal kind," she snapped. Suddenly she pulled a tiny pistol from her lacy sleeve and pointed it at his beak.

He was already pointing one of his wings at her. He glanced at the feathery mass, huffed, and folded up the end. A shining pistol was revealed, aimed right for the woman's forehead.

Her eyes went wide.

"Mine's bigger," he sang.


End file.
